LIBRARY OF CONGR1 




D0003SflS4fl7 







^-— «*—■-■•— l- 



SELECT 

SCOTISH SONGS, 

ANCIENT AND MODERN; 

WITH 

CRITICAL OBSERVATIONS AND BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES, 

BY ROBERT BURNS. 



EDITED 

By R. H. CROMEK, F. A. S. Ed. 



vol. I. 




LONDON: 

PRINTED FOR T. CADELL AND W. DAVIES, STRAND. 
By J. M'CREEBT, Blach-Bone-Court, Fleet-Street, 



1810. 



mo 

Com 2- 






<"-<^ d22r<. £Ai~t 4 jw.^- y2; — a^> /L*/*— c* 

- t£z>~%^ /T2L Z£T. iL '/-^- t* 



fi ^W^ 




PREFACE. 



1 HE following Remarks from the pen of Burns 
appeared in the publication of The Reliques; and 
as it might reasonably be presumed that whatever 
exercised his judgment and gratified his taste, would 
excite the curiosity of the public, and be worthy of 
their attention, they are now presented, detached 
from his other works, accompanied by the Songs 
which met the Poet's decided approbation. In per- 
forming this task, the Editor conceives he shall ac- 
complish a two-fold object ; for while the Songs ac- 
quire additional interest from the criticisms of so 
eminent a Poet, the Remarks themselves will be 
better appreciated when prefixed to the subjects on 
which they are grounded. The nature of the under- 
taking would render it unnecessary for him to enter 
into a general disquisition on Scotish Song, even if it 
had not been fully illustrated by the able pens of 
Ramsay, Lord Hailes, Tytler, Ramsay of Oehter- 
vol. i. b 



■ 



- 



tyre,* Ritson,f and above all, by Burns himself, who, 
besides the observations in the present work, has scat- 
tered among his prose writings the most judicious re- 
flections on the subject. It will be equally superfluous 
to prove the eminent qualifications of Burns for un- 
derstanding and relishing whatever relates to Scotish 
Song; they have been clearly elucidated in the follow- 
ing elegant and concise testimony by Mr. Walter Scott. 
" The Scottish songs and tunes preserved for 
Burns that inexpressible charm which they have ever 
afforded to his countrymen. He entered into the 
idea of collecting their fragments with all the zeal of 
an enthusiast ; and few, whether serious or humorous, 
past through his hands without receiving some of 
those magic touches, which, without greatly altering 
the song, restored its original spirit, or gave it more 
than it had ever possessed. So dexterously are these 
touches combined with the ancient structure, that 
the rifacciamentOy in many instances, could scarcely 
have been detected, without the avowal of the Bard 
himself. Neither would it be easy to mark his share 
in the individual ditties. Some he appears entirely to 

* This gentleman has written an excellent Essay on Scotish 
Song, which originally appeared in the second volume of " The 
Bee," p. 201, under the signature of J. Runcole* 

t In the Appendix (e) will be found an account of the last 
days of this antiquary. 



Ill 



have re-written ; to others he added supplementary 
stanzas ; in some he retained only the leading lines 
and the chorus, and others he merely arranged and 
ornamented. Let us take one of the best examples 
of his skill in imitating the old ballad. — Macpher- 
son's Lament was a well-known song many years 
before the Ayrshire Bard wrote those additional 
verses which constitute its principal merit.* This 
noted freebooter w r as executed at Inverness, about 
the beginning of the last century. When he came to 
the fatal tree, he played the tune to which he has be- 
queathed his name, upon a favourite violin, and hold- 
ing up the instrument, offered it to any one of his 
clan who would undertake to play the tune over his 
body at the lyke-wake : as none answered, he dashed 
it to pieces on the executioner's head, and flung him- 
self from the ladder. The wild stanzas which Burns 
has put into the mouth of this desperado, are ground- 
ed upon some traditional remains. 

" How much Burns delighted in the task of eking 
out the ancient melodies of his country, appears 
from the following affecting passage in a letter writ- 
ten to Mr. Johnson, shortly before his death/' 

' You are a good, worthy, honest fellow, and have 
a good right to live in this world — because you de- 
serve it. Many a merry meeting this publication has 
* This will be found in the present vol. p. 108. 
b£ 



IV 



given us, and possibly it may give us more, though, 
alas ! I fear it. This protracting, slow, consuming 
illness which hangs over me, will, I doubt much, my 
ever dear friend, arrest my sun before he has well 
reached his middle career, and will turn over the 
poet to far other and more important concerns than 
studying the brilliancy of wit, or the pathos of senti- 
ment ! However, hope is the cordial of the human 
heart, and I endeavour to cherish it as well as I can. 
— (Reliques, p. 184J 

This heart-rending letter shews that Burns retained 
to the last hour his enthusiastic taste for the rustic 
poetry of his country. That he imbibed this taste 
at an early age, and that he cherished it throughout 
his life, we have abundant proof from the testimony 
of his nearest relatives and friends, and from his own 
avowal. i I have/ he himself observes, ' paid 
more attention to every description of Scots Song 
than perhaps any body living has done/ He had all 
the advantages of study, of local situation, and of 
national attachment ; and his own inborn enthusiasm 
perpetually impelled him to cultivate these advan- 
tages. As an instance of the vivid impression which 
the poetry of his country made on his young mind, 
we may mention the song of The blaithrie o't, 
which, he observes, was the earliest song he remera- 



bers to have got by heart. ' When a child, an old 
woman sung it to me, and I picked it up every word 
at first hearing/ (Reliques, p. 210). It is not im- 
probable that a song which thus caught his lively 
fancy, had some share in exciting those kindred inde- 
pendent ideas that frequently occur even in his juve- 
nile poems. The Editor was very much struck with 
a still more interesting account given by Burns in a 
letter to Mrs. Dunlop, of an old ballad called The 
Life and Age of Man. i I had an old grand- 
uncle/ says he, e with whom my mother lived awhile 
in her girlish years ; the good old man, for such he 
was, was long blind ere he died ; during which time, 
his highest enjoyment was to sit down and cry, while 
my mother would sing the simple old song of The 
Life and Age of Man. 

The Editor conceived, from the enthusiasm with 
which the Poet speaks of this ballad, that if it could 
be procured, it might possibly throw light on some 
of his productions. After much inquiry, and hunting 
from stall to stall, he was at last fortunate enough to 
procure a copy of it. His conjectures were fully 
verified. From the solecisms with which this copy 
abounded, he perceived that it had not been much 
indebted to the care of its editors. He hoped, 
however, that the Poet's mother might still be able 



VI 



to recollect so much of it as should enable him 

to present something like a correct copy to his 

readers. 

On a visit to this worthy old woman, he had the 

satisfaction of hearing the whole recited by her, and 
he carefully marked the variations between his copy 
and her recitation. The reading of Mrs. Burns was 
so much superior to the other, that he had no hesi- 
tation in adopting it. It will be found, that to this 
interesting ballad we owe the exquisitely pathetic ode 
of ' Man was made to mourn! The Editor hopes 
that he will be forgiven for here introducing it to the 
consideration of the curious. 



THE 

LIFE AND AGE OF MAN : 

OR, 

A short Description of his Nature, Rise and Fall, accord- 
ing to the Twelve Months of the Year. 

Tune— -Isle of Kell. 

Upon the sixteen hunder year, 

of God and fifty three, 
Frae Christ was born, that bought us dear, 

as writings testifie ; 



Vll 

On January the sixteenth day, 

as I did ly alone, 
With many a sigh and sob did say, 

Ah ! Man is made to moan. 

Dame Natur, that excellent bride, 

did stand up me before, 
And said to me, thou must provide 

this life for to abhor : 
Thou seest what things are gone before, 

experience teaches thee ; 
Yet do not miss to remember this, 

that one day thou must die. 

Of all the creatures bearing life 

recall back to thy mind, 
Consider how they ebb and flow, 

each thing in their own kind ; 
Yet few of them have such a strain, 

as God hath given to thee ; 
Therefore this lesson keep in mind, — 

remember man to die. 

Man's course on earth I will report, 

if I have time and space ; 
It may be long, it may be short, 

as God hath giv'n him grace. 
His natur to the herbs compare, 

that in the ground ly dead; 



via 

And to eaeh month add five year, 
and so we will procede. 

The first five years then of man's life 

compare to Januar ; 
In all that time but sturt and strife, 

he can but greet and roar. 
So is the fields of flowers all bare, 

by reason of the frost ; 
Kept in the ground both safe and sound, 

not one of them is lost. 

So to years ten I shall speak then 

of Februar but lack ; 
The child is meek and weak of spirit, 

nothing can undertake : 
So all the flow'rs, for lack of show'rs, 

no springing up can make, 
Yet birds do sing and praise their king, 

and each one choose their mate. 

Then in comes March, that noble arch, 

with wholesome spring and air, 
The child doth spring to years fifteen, 

with visage fine and fair ; 
So do the flowers with softening show'rs, 

ay spring up as we see ; 
Yet nevertheless remember this, 

that one day we must die. 



IX 

Then brave April doth sweetly smile, 

the flowers do fair appear, 
The child is then become a man, 

to the age of twenty year ; 
If he be kind and well inclined, 

and brought up at the school, 
Then men may know if he fpreshow 

a wise man or a fool. 

Then cometh May, gallant and gay, 

when fragrant flow'rs do thrive, 
The child is then become a man, 

of age twenty and five : 
And for his life doth seek a wife, 

his life and years to spend ; 
Christ from above send peace and love, 

and grace unto the end ! 

Then cometh June with pleasant tune^ 

when fields with flowers are clad, 
And Phcebus bright is at his height, 

all creatures then are glad : 
Then he appears of thretty years, 

with courage bold and stout ; 
His natur so makes him to go, 

of death he hath no doubt. 

Then July comes with his hot climes* 
and constant in his kind, 



The man doth thrive to thirty-five, 
and sober grows in mind ; 

His children small do on him call, 
and breed him sturt and strife ; 






Then August old, both stout and bold, 

when flowers do stoutly stand ; 
So man appears to forty years, 

with wisdom and command ; 
And doth provide his house to guide, 

children and familie ; 
Yet do not miss t' remember this, 

that one day thou must die. 

September then comes with his train, 

and makes the flow'rs to fade ; 
Then man belyve is forty -five, 

grave, constant, wise, and staid. 
When he looks on, how youth is gone, 

and shall it no more see ; 
Then may he say, both night and day, 

have mercy, Lord, on me ! 

October's blast comes in with boast, 
and makes the flow'rs to fall ; 

Then man appears to fifty years, 
old age doth on him call ; 



The almond tree doth flourish hie. 

and pale grows man we see ; 
Then it is time to use this line, 

remember, man, to die. 

November air maketh fields bare 

of flow'rs, of grass, and corn ; 
Then man arrives to fifty-five, 

and sick both e'en and morn : 
Loins, legs, and thighs, without disease, 

makes him to sigh and say, 
Ah ! Christ on high have mind on me, 

and learn me for to die ! 

December fell baith sharp and snell, 

makes flowers creep in the ground ; 
Then man's threescore, both sick and sore, 

no soundness in him found. 
His ears and e'en, and teeth of bane, 

all these now do him fail ; 
Then may he-say, both night and day, 

that death shall him assail. 

And if there be, thro' natur stout, 
some that live ten years more ; 

Or if he creepeth up and down, 
till he comes to fourscore ; 

Yet all this time is but a line^ 
no pleasure can he see : 



Xll 



Then may he say, both night and day, 
have mercy, Lord, on me ! 

Thus have I shown you as I can, 

the course of all mens' life ; 
We will return where we began, 

but* either sturt or strife : 
Dame Memorie doth take her leave, 

she'll last no more, we see ; 
God grant that I may not you grieve, 

Ye'll get nae mair of me. 



It appears from the first verse of this ballad, that 
it was written about the year 1653. It is not un- 
reasonable to suppose, that it was the production of 
some pedantic country schoolmaster, who would 
naturally write in a stately, stilted style, different 
from the common people, his neighbours. Mrs. 
Burns says, that it was one of the many nursery songs 
of her mother ; and that she first heard and learned 
it from her seventy years ago. Neither she nor her 
son Gilbert had ever seen a printed copy of it. It 
is no bad specimen of the quaint, moralizing manner 
that obtained soon after the Reformation. This 

* Without. 



Xlll 

quaintness, however, is mixed up with a good deal of 
imagination. There is a vein of pensive melancholy 
too in it which could hardly fail to make a deep im- 
pression on the young mind of Burns ; accordingly 
we find that this ballad has not only the same struc- 
ture of versification with the Ode of Burns, and the 
repetition of the last line of the stanza; but it 
breathes a kindred pensive melancholy from begin- 
ning to end. Many of the imitations in the Ode are 
so close and so obvious, that it is impossible they 
could be accidental. For instance, the last line of 
the first stanza of the ballad, " Man is made to 
moa?i" evidently suggested " Man was made to 
mourn" The following imitations cannot fail to be 
acknowledged. The reader of himself will easily 
discover more. 

•' November air maketh fields bare 
of flowers, of grass, and corn." 

Ballad, st.xv* 

<( When chill November's surly blast 
Made fields and forests bare." 

Ode. 

" Thou seest what things are gone before, 
experience teaches thee ; 



XIV 



Iii what state ever that thou be, 

remember, man, to die/' 

Ballad, st. II. 

** I've seen yon weary winter sun 
Twice forty times return ; 
And every time has added proofs 
That man was made to mourn." 

Ode. 

" Therefore this lesson keep in mind, 
remember, man, to die." 

Ballad, st. III. 

" Thro' weary life this lesson learn, 
That man was made to mourn." 

Ode. 

In his other Poems are also to be found occasion- 
ally images and illustrations, obviously taken from 
this ballad. — In the " Address to a Mouse" for in- 
stance, when he says, 

" An* bleak December's winds ensuin 
Baith snell and keen," 

the following line must have been floating in his 
mind: 

" December fell, baith sharp and snell/' 



XV 



It would be uncandid to suppose that the Editor 
has here been actuated by a wish to detract from the 
merit of Burns. He conceived that nothing which 
might serve to elucidate the progress of his gigantic 
mind could be useless or uninteresting. Burns 
wished not to shroud himself up in any mysterious 
obscurity. He felt no jealousy that the closest in- 
spection would in the least diminish his reputation. 
We see him continually pointing to the productions 
with which his earliest years were most familiar; 
thus affording us, in a great measure, the means of 
ascertaining how r much of his excellence we owe to 
the efforts of those who had preceded him, and how 
much to the inspiration of his own vigorous mind. 
The path he trod was so unfrequented, and lay so 
much out of the common road, that without his as- 
sistance we should never have traced it. We saw 
with admiration a rich and unexpected harvest of 
original poetry; and we could not discover from 
whence he had collected the seeds that had shot up 
to such maturity. We find, however, that many of 
the thoughts which appear in him with such lustre 
were derived from others ; and even that some of his 
most sublime and pathetic poems owe their origin to 
models of a similar description, however inferior. 
To the Farmer's Ingle we owe the Cottar's Satur- 
day Night: to the rude and artless offspring of for- 



XVI 



gotten bards we owe some of his most exquisite lyri- 
cal effusions. On a just and candid comparison, it 
must be evident that he has greatly excelled his mo- 
dels, and our admiration of his versatile talents will 
be considerably increased when we consider how 
happily he has reformed and polished the models 
themselves. By the force of his superior powers he 
has appropriated the works of his predecessors, in 
order to render them more perfect, by purifying their 
dross, illustrating their obscurities, suppressing their 
faults, and refining their beauties. The native genius 
of Michael Angelo was not degraded but exalted by 
his study of the Antique ; and in Poetry as well as in 
the Sister Arts, true originality consists not so much 
in painting what has never been painted before, as in 
the production of those vivid pictures which eclipse 
all former attempts. 

To this originality Burns has an undoubted claim 
The proud pre-eminence he enjoys above all the 
Poets of his country will not soon be disputed with 
him. It is impossible to say what lies hid in the womb 
of futurity ; but it may be almost pronounced with 
safety, that he will ever maintain his present supe- 
riority; and that each new successor will but add 
another wreath to his laurels. 

R. H. C 

London, Newman-street, May, 1810. 



SELECT SCOTISH SONGS, kc. 



THE HIGHLAND QUEEN. 

The Highland Queen, music and 'poetry, was 
composed by a Mr. M' Vicar, purser of the Solbay 
man of war. — This I had from Dr. Blacklock. 



BESS THE GAWKIE. 



THIS song shews that the Scotish Muses did not 
all leave us when we lost Ramsay and Oswald^ as 
I have good reason to believe that the verses and 

* The Editor has been told by Mrs. William Copland, in 
Dalbeattie, Galloway, (a lady to whose taste, and accuracy of in- 
formation he has been often indebted), that this Song is the 

production of the late Reverend Morehead, minister of 

Urr parish, in Galloway. 

t Oswald was a music-seller in London, about the year 1750. 
He published a large collection of Scotish tunes, which he called 
the Caledonian Pocket Companion. Mr. Tytler observes, that his 
genius in composition, joined to his taste in the performance of 
Scotish music, was natural and pathetic. 
VOL. I. B 



music are both posterior to the days of these two 
gentlemen. — It is a beautiful song, and in the ge- 
nuine Scots taste. We have few pastoral composi- 
tions, I mean the pastoral of nature, that are equal 
to this. 

Blythe young Bess to Jean did say, 

Will ye gang to yon sunny brae, 

Where flocks do feed and herds do stray, 

And sport awhile wi' Jamie ? 
Ah na, lass, I'll no gang there, 
Nor about Jamie tak nae care, 
Nor about Jamie tak nae care, 

For he's taen up wi' Maggy ! 

For hark, and I will tell you, lass, 
Did I not see your Jamie pass, 
Wi' meikle gladness in his face, 

Out o'er the muir to Maggy. 
1 wat he gae her mony a kiss, 
And Maggy took them ne'er amiss ; 
'Tween ilka smack, pleas'd her with this, 

That Bess was but a gawkie. 

For when a civil kiss I seek, 
She turns her head, and thraws her cheek, 
And for an hour she'll scarcely speak ; 
Who'd not call her a gawkfe ? 



3 



But sure my Maggie has mair sense, 
She'll gie a score without offence ; 
Now gie me ane unto the mense, 
And ye shall be my daw tie. 

O, Jamie, ye ha'e mony tane, 
But I will never stand for ane, 
Or twa, when we do meet again ; 

Sae ne'er think me a gawkie. 
Ah, na, lass, that ne'er can be, 
Sic thoughts as these are far frae me, 
Or ony that sweet face that see, 

E'er to think thee a gawkie. 

But whisht ! — nae mair of this we'll speak, 
For yonder Jamie does us meet ; 
Instead of Meg he kiss'd sae sweet, 
I trow he likes the gawkie. 

dear Bess, I hardly knew, 

When I came by, your gown sae new, 

1 think you've got it wat wi' dew ; 

Quoth she, that's like a gawkie: 

It's wat wi' dew, and 'twill get rain. 
And I'll get gowns when it is gane, 
Sae you may gang the gate you came, 
And tell it to your dawtie. 



The guilt appealed in Jamie's cheek ; 
He cry'd, O cruel maid, but sweet, 
If I should gang anither gate, 
I ne'er could meet my dawtie ! 

The lasses fast frae him they flew, 
And left poor Jamie sair to rue, 
That ever Maggy's face he knew, 

Or yet ca'd Bess a gawkie. 
As they went o'er the muir they sang; 
The hills and dales w 7 ith echoes rang, 
The hills and dales with echoes rang, 

Gang o'er the muir to Maggy! 



OH, OPEN THE DOOR, LORD GREGORY. 

It is somewhat singular, that in Lanark, Ren- 
frew, Ayr, Wigton, Kirkcudbright, and Dumfries- 
shires, there is scarcely an old song or tune which, 
from the title, fyc. can be guessed to belong to, or be 
the production of these countries. This, I conjec- 
ture, is one of these very few; as the ballad, which 
is a long one, is called both by tradition and in 
printed collections, The Lass o' Lochroyan, which 
I take to be Lochroyan, in Galloway. 



THE BANKS OF THE TWEED, 

This song is one of the many attempts that E?ig- 
Ush composers hate made to imitate the Scotish 
manner, and which I shall, in these strictures, beg 
leave to distinguish by the appellation of Anglo- 
Scotish productions. The music is pretty good, but 
the -verses are just above contempt. 



KOSLIN CASTLE. 



THESE beautiful verses zcere the production of a 
Richard Hezcit* a young man that Dr. Blacklock, 

* Richatrd Hewit was taken when a boy, during the residence 
of Dr. Blacklock in Cumberland, to lead him.— He addressed a 
copy of verses to the Doctor on quitting his service. Among 
the verses are the following lines : 

" How oft those plains I've thoughtless prest; 
u Whistled or sung some Fair distrest, 
" When fate would steal a tear." 

Alluding, 



to whom I am indebted for the anecdote, kept for 
some years as an amanuensis. I do not know who 
is the author of the second song to the tune. Tytler, 
in his amusing history of Scots music, gives the air 
to Oswald ; but in Oswald's own collection of Scots 
tunes, where he affixes an asterisk to those he him- 
self composed, he does not make the least claim to 
the tune. 

'Twas in that season of the year, 
When all things gay and sweet appear, 
That Colin, with the morning ray, 
Arose and sung his rural lay. 
Of Nanny's charms the shepherd sung, 
The hills and dales with Nanny rung ; 
While Roslin Castle heard the swain, 
And echoed back the cheerful strain. 

Awake, sweet Muse ! the breathing spring, 
With rapture warms ; awake and sing ! 
Awake and join the vocal throng, 
Who hail the morning with a song ; 

Alluding, as it is said in a note, to a sort of narrative songs, 
which make no inconsiderable part of the innocent amusement* 
with which the country people (of Cumberland) pass the wintry 
nights, and of which the author of the present piece was a 
faithful rehearser. 

Blackjack's Poems, 1756, 8w>, p. 5. 



To Nanny raise the cheerful lay, 
O ! bid her haste and come away ; 
In sweetest smiles herself adorn, 
And add new graces to the morn ! 

O, hark, my love ! on ev'ry spray, 
Each feather'd warbler tunes his lay ; 
5 Tis beauty fires the ravish'd throng, 
And love inspires the melting song j* 
Then let my raptur'd notes arise, 
For beauty darts from Nanny's eyes ; 
And love my rising bosom warms, 
And fills my soul with sweet alarms. 

O ! come, my love ! thy Colin's lay 

With rapture calls, O come away ! 

Come, while the Muse this wreath shall twine 

Around that modest brow of thine ; 

O ! hither haste, and with thee bring 

That beauty blooming like the spring* 

Those graces that divinely shine, 

And charm this ravish'd breast of mine ! 



THE BEDS OF SWEET ROSES. 

THIS song, as far as I Unozo, for the first time 
appears here in print. — When I was a boy, it was a 
very popular song in Ayrshire. I remember to 
have heard those fanatics, the Buchanites* sing 
some of their nonsensical rhymes, which they dignify 
zoith the name of hymns, to this air.-f 

* A set of itinerant fanatics in the west of Scotland, so deno- 
minated from their leader, Elizabeth Buchan. The husband of 
this visionary was one of the proprietors of the Delft-work ma- 
nufactory at Glasgow, by whom she had several children. 
About 1779 she began to prophecy that the end of the world 
was drawing nigh, and that all Christians must abandon worldly 
connexions, in order to be in readiness to meet Christ. She 
soon gathered a great number of followers, and journeyed with 
them through several parts of Scotland, increasing as they went. 
At length Mrs. Buchan died in 1791, and her disciples dispersed. 

f This practice of composing spiritual hymns and songs to com- 
mon ballad tunes was laughed at by Shakespeare in his Winter's 
Tale, where he speaks of a Puritan who sings psalms to hornpipes; 
and that it obtained long anterior to the time of the Buchanites, 
the curious reader may see, if he can meet with a very scarce 
book quoted in il Campbell's History of Poetry in Scotland," 
which appeared in Mr. Constable's sale Catalogue for 1796, 
called Geddes's Saints Recreation, &c. addressed, in the very 
spirit of modern dedication, to no less than Jive Patronesses! 
each of whom the author hath honoured with a separate dedi- 
cation, 



9 



SAW YE JOHNNIE CUMMIN ? QVO' SHE. 

This song for genuine humor in the verses, and 
lively originality in the air, is unparalleled. I take 
it to be very old. 

Saw ye Johnnie cummin f quo' she, 

Saw ye Johnnie cummin, 
O saw ye Johnnie cummin, quo' she ; 

Saw ye Johnnie cummin, 
Wi' his blue bonnet on his head, 

And his doggie runnin, quo' she ; 

And his doggie runnin ? 



cation, expressive of his notions of their piety, pretensions to 
nobility, fyc. fyc. 

The reader may see many specimens of this pious nonsense in 
" Ane compendious boohe of Godly and spirit uall Songs," &c. 16^1, 
specimens of which the late Lord Hailes published in 1764. The 
whole was republished, with a valuable Introduction, by Dalzell, 
Edin. 1801. Similar performances made their appearance among 
the Bereans in Scotland, the production of their spiritual guide, 
Mr. Barclay. Among others are these titles : " Haud awa\ bide 
awa, haud aica frae me Deilie" — " Wat ye wha I met yestreen, 
lying on my bed, Mamma ? — an angel bright," fyc. 



10 

Fee him, father,* fee him, quo" she ; 

Fee him, father, fee him : 
For he is a gallant lad, 

And a weel doin' ; 
And a' the wark about the house 

Gaes wi' me when I see him, quo' she; 

Wi' me when I see him. 

What will I do wi' him, hussy? 

What will I do wi' him ? 
He's ne'er a sark upon his back, 

And I hae nane to gie him. 
I hae twa sarks into my kist, 

And ane o' them I'll gie him, 
And for a mark of mair fee, 

Dinna stand wi' him, quo' she; 

Dinna stand wi' him. 

For weel do I lo'e him, quo' she ; 

Weel do I lo'e him : 
O fee him, father, fee him, quo' she ; 

Fee him, father, fee him ; 
He'll haud the pleugh, thrash i' the barn 

And lie wi' me at e'en, quo' she; 

Lie wi' me at e'en. 

* Hire him. 



1J 



CLOUT THE CALDRON. 



A TRADITION is mentioned in the Bee, that the 
second Bishop Chisholm, of Dunblane, used to say, 
that if he were going to be hanged, nothing would 
soothe his mind so much by the way, as to hear 
Clout the Caldron played. 

I have met with another tradition, that the old 
song to this tune 

Hae ye ony pots or pans, 
Or onie broken chanlers, 

was composed on one of the Kenmure family, in the 
Cavalier times; and alluded to an amour he had, 
while under hiding, in the disguise of an itinerant 
tinker. The air is also known by the name of 

The Blacksmith and his Apron, 

which from the rhythm, seems to have been a line of 
some old song to the tune. 



12 



SAW YE NAE MY PEGGY? 

This charming song is much older, and indeed 
superior, to Ramsay s verses, " The Toast/' as he 
calls them. There is another set of the words, much 
older still, and which I take to be the original one, 
but though it has a very great deal of merit, it is 
not quite ladies'' reading. 

Saw ye nae my Peggy, 
Saw ye nae my Peggy, 
Saw ye nae my Peggy, 

Coming o'er the lea ? 
Sure a finer creature 
Ne'er was form'd by nature. 
So complete each feature, 

So divine is she. 

O ! how Peggy charms me ; 
Every look still warms me ; 
Every thought alarms me, 

Lest she love nae me. 
Peggy doth discover 
Nought but charms all over; 
Nature bids me love her, 

That's a law to me. 



13 

Who would leave a lover, 
To become a rover ? 
No, I'll ne'er give over, 

'Till I happy be. 
For since love inspires me, 
As her beauty fires me, 
And her absence tires me, 

Nought can please but she . 

When I hope to gain her, 
Fate seems to detain her, 
Cou'd I but obtain her, 

Happy wou'd I be ! 
I'll ly down before her, 
Bless, sigh, and adore her, 
With faint looks implore her, 

'Till she pity me. 



The original words, for they can scarcely be called 
verses, seem to be as follows ; a song familiar from 
the cradle to every Scotish ear. 



14 

Saw ye my Maggie, 
Saw ye my Maggie, 
Saw ye my Maggie 
Linkin o'er the lea ? 

High kilted was she, 
High kilted was she, 
High kilted was she, 

Her coat aboon her knee. 

What mark has your Maggie, 
What mark has your Maggie, 
What mark has your Maggie 
That ane may ken her be f (by) 



Though it by no means follows that the silliest 
verses to an air must, for that reason, be the original 
song; yet I take this ballad, of which I have quoted 
part, to be the old verses. The two songs in Ram- 
say, one of them evidently his own, are never to be 
met with in the fire-side circle of our peasantry; 
zvhile that which I take to be the old song, is in 
every shepherd's mouth. Ramsay, I suppose, had 
thought the old verses unworthy of a place in his 
collection. 



Id 



THE FLOWERS OF EDINBURGH. 

This song is one of the many effusions of Scots 

jacobitism. — The title, Flowers of Edinburgh, has 

no manner of connexion with the present verses, so 

I suspect there has been an older set of words, of 

which the title is all that remains. 

By the bye, it is singular enough that the Sco- 
tish Muses were all Jacobites. — I have paid more 
attention to every description of Scots songs than 
perhaps any body living has done, and I do not re- 
collect one single stanza, or even the title of the 
most trifling Scots air, which has the least panegy- 
rical reference to the families of Nassau or Bruns- 
wick ; while there are hundreds satirizing them. — 
This may be thought no panegyric on the Scots 
Poets, but I mean it as such. For myself, I would 
always take it as a compliment to have it said, that 
my heart ran before my head;* — and surely the 

* Poor Burns! — Thy heart indeed ran always before thy 
head ; but never didst thou fail to carry thy reader's heart along 
with thee.-— Instead of kindling at the indignities offered to thy 
native land, hadst thou been a wise and a prudent poet, thou 
would'st have tuned thy lyre to the praise of some powerful 
fernily, and carefully abstained from drawing on thy head the 

resentment 



16 

gallant though unfortunate house of Stuart, the 
kings of our fathers for so many heroic ages, is a 
theme much more interesting than # # # # 



resentment of the guilty great, or their descendants. Thou 
mightest then have rolled in affluence, and ceased to struggle 
under the insulting taunts of every little upstart in office. Thou 
mightest have flourished in thy day, and left behind thee an off- 
spring securely treading the path of honours and preferment, in- 
stead of leaving thy wife and children poor and pennyless, at the 
mercy of the world. — All this thou mightest have done ; but 
then thou would'st not have been a poet. Thy mantle has in- 
deed been claimed by the first of a new order of poets, who 
has done all that thou would'st have disdained to do. The world 
has seen with astonishment, the solid treasures realized by the 
speculating muse ; but the meretricious laurel will soon wither 
around the wearer's brow, and succeeding generations will turn 
with contempt from the cold and the courtly strain. 

I do not mean to say that poetry and prudence are altogether 
incompatible ; but that prudence which would stifle the feelings 
which should glow in every manly bosom, can never exist with 
true and genuine poetry. The prudence that would suppress 
the indignant strain of a Campbell at the horrors of Warsaw, or 
at the cries of the helpless women and children of our American 
brethren mangled and murdered by Savages, spurred on by 
cold and unfeeling politicians; — the prudence that could see 
unmoved the smoking villages and unhallowed butchery which 
followed in the train of Culloden, the unsophisticated muse 
will ever disdain. He can never be a poet who does not feel as 
a man. — Ed, 



17 



JAMIE GAY. 



JAMIE Gay is another and a tolerable Anglo- 
Scotish piece. 



MY DEAR JOCKIE. 

ANOTHER Anglo-Scotish production. 



FYE, GAE RUB HER O ER WI STRAE* 

It is self-evident that the first four lines of this 
song are part of a song more ancient than Ramsay s 
beautiful verses which are annexed to them. As 
music is the language of nature; and poetry, parti- 
cularly songs, are always less or more localized (if I 
may be allowed the verb) by some of the modifica- 
tions of time and place, this is the reason why so 
many of our Scots airs have outlived their original, 
and perhaps many subsequent sets of verses; except a 
single name, or phrase, or sometimes one or tzco 
lines, simply to distinguish the times by. 

vol. i. c 



18 



To this day among people who knozo nothing of 
Ramsay's verses, the following is the song, and all 
the song that ever I heard: — 

Gin ye meet a bonie lassie, 
Gie her a kiss and let her gae ; 

But gin ye meet a dirty hizzie, 
Fye, gar rub her o'er wi* strae. 

Fye, gae rub her, rub her, rub her, 
Fye, gae rub her o'er wi' strae : 

An' gin ye meet a dirty hizzie, 
fye, gar rub her o'er wi' strae. 



Look up to Pentland's towering tap, # 
Bury'd beneath great wreaths of snaw, 

O'er ilka cleugh, ilk scar, and slap, 
As high as ony Roman wa\ 



* This spirited imitation of the u Vides ut alta stet nive candu 
dum, Svracte" of Horace, is considered as one of the happiest 
efforts of the author's genius. — For a very elegant critique on 
the poem, and a comparison of its merits with those of the ori- 
ginal, the reader is referred to Lord Woodhouseletfs Remarks on 
the Writings of Ramsay, vol. i. p. 98. London, 1800. 



19 

Driving their baws frae whins or tee, 
There's no nae gowfers to be seen ; 

Nor dousser fowk wysing a-jee 

The byass-bouls on Tamson's green. 

Then fling on coals, and ripe the ribs, 
And beek the house baith butt and ben ; 

That mutchkin stowp it hads but dribs, 
Then let's get in the tappit hen. 

Good claret best keeps out the cauld, 
And drives away the winter soon ; 

It makes a man baith gash and bauld, 
And heaves his saul beyond the moon. 

Leave to the gods your ilka care, 

If that they think us worth their while, 

They can a rowth of blessings spare, 
Which will our fashious fears beguile. 

For what they have a mind to do, 

That will they do, should we gang wood ; 

If they command the storms to blaw, 
Then upo' sight the hailstains thud. 

But soon as ere they cry, " Be quiet," 
The blatt'ring winds dare nae mair move, 

But cour into their caves, and wait 
The high command of supreme Jove. 
c 2 



20 



Let neist day come as it thinks fit, 
The present minute's only ours ; 

On pleasure let's employ our wit, 
And laugh at fortune's fickle powers. 

Be sure ye dinna quat the grip 
Of ilka joy when ye are young, 

Before auld age your vitals nip, 
And lay ye twafald o'er a rung. 

Sweet youth's a blyth and heartsome time ; 

Then, lads and lasses, while it's May, 
Gae pou the gowan in its prime, 

Before it wither and decay. 

Watch the saft minutes of delyte, 

When Jenny speaks beneath her breath, 

And kisses, laying a' the wyte 
On you, if she kepp ony skaith. 

" Haith, ye're ill-bred," she'll smiling say; 

" Ye'll worry me, ye greedy rook ;" 
Syne frae your arms she'll rin aw r ay, 

And hide hersell in some dark nook. 

Her laugh will lead you to the place 
Where lies the happiness you want, 

And plainly tells you to your face, 
Nineteen nay-says are haff a grant 



21 

Now to her heaving bosom cling, 
And sweetly toolie for a kiss, 

Frae her fair finger whop a ring, 
As taiken of a future bliss. 

These bennisons, I'm very sure, 
Are of the gods' indulgent grant ; 

Then, surly carles, whisht, forbear 
To plague us with your whining cant. 



THE LASS O LIVISTON. 

The old song, in three eight-line stanzas, is well 
known, and has merit as to wit and humour; but it 
is rather unfit for insertion. — It begins, 

The bonie lass o' Liviston, 

Her name ye ken, her name ye ken, 

And she has written in her contract, 
To lie her lane, to lie her lane. 

&c. &c. 



THE LAST TIME I CAME O ER THE MOOR. 

RaMSAY found the first line of this song, which 
had been preserved as the title of the charming air, 
and then composed the rest of the verses to suit that 
line. This has always a finer effect than composing 
English zvords, or words with an idea foreign to the 
spirit of the old title. Where old titles of songs 
convey any idea at all, it will generally be found to 
be quite in the spirit of the air. 



JOHNNYS GRAY BREEKS. 

THOUGH this has certainly every evidence of 
being a Scotish air, yet there is a zvell-known tune 
and song in the North of Ireland, called, The 
Weaver and his Shuttle, O, zohich though sung much 
quicker, is every note the very tune. 

When I was in my se'nteen year, 

I was baith blythe and bonny, 
O the lads loo'd me baith far and near, 

But I loo'd nane but Johnny : 



23 



He gain'd my heart in twa three weeks, 
He spake sae blythe and kindly ; 

And I made him new gray breeks, 
That fitted him most finely. 

He was a handsome fellow ; 

His humour was baith frank and free, 
His bonny locks sae yellow, 

Like gowd they glitter'd in my ee ; — 
His dimpl'd chin and rosy cheeks, 

And face sae fair and ruddy ; 
And then a-days his gray breeks, 

Was neither auld nor duddy. # 

But now they're threadbare worn, 

They're wider than they wont to be ; 
They're tashed-like,*f and sair torn, 

And clouted sair on ilka knee. 
But gin I had a simmer's day, 

As I have had right mony, 
I'd make a web o' new gray, 

To be breeks to my Johnny. 

For he's weel wordy o' them, 

And better gin I had to gie, 
And I'll tak pains upo' them, 

Frae fauts I'll strive to keep them free, 
* Ragged. t Stained 



24 

To dead him weel shall be my care, 
And please him a' my study ; 

But he maun wear the auld pair 
.A wee, tho' they be duddy. 

For when the lad was in his prime, 

Like him there was nae mony, 
He caM me aye his bonny thing, 

Sae wha wou'd na lo'e Johnny ? 
So I lo'e Johnny's gray breeks, 

For a' the care they've gi'en me yet, 
And gin we live anither year, 

We'll keep them hale betwen us yet. 

Now to conclude, — his gray breeks, 

I'll sing them up wi' mirth and glee ; 
Here's luck to a' the gray steeks, # 

That show themsells upo' the knee ! 
And if wi' health I'm spared, 

A' wee while as I may, 
I shall hae them prepared, 

As well as ony that's o' gray. 

* Stitches, 



25 




MAY EVE, OK KATE OF ABERDEEN. 

Kate of Aberdeen, is, I believe, the work of 
poor Cunningham the player ; of whom the follow- 
ing anecdote, though told before, deserves a recital. 
A fat dignitary of the church coming past Cunning- 
ham one Sunday as the poor poet was busy plying a 
fishing-rod in some stream near Durham, his native 
country, his reverence reprimanded Cunningham 
very severely for such an occupation on such a day. 



09 

The poor poet, with that inoffensive gentleness of 
marmers which was his peculiar characteristic, re- 
plied, that he hoped God and his reverence would 
forgive his seeming profanity of that sacred day, 
" as he had no dinner to eat, but what lay at the 
bottom of that pool !" This, Mr. Woods, the 
player, who knew Cunningham well, and esteemed 
him much, assured me zvas true.* 

* The Editor, on his way to Edinburgh, had an interview with 
the celebrated Bewick, of Newcastle, who favoured him with 
the annexed interesting Portrait of Cunningham, which he drew 
two days before the Poet's death. 

Through life Bewick has possessed a vivid recollection of Cha- 
racter, and to this happy faculty we owe some of the most vigor- 
ous productions of his pencil. The Poems of Cunningham were 
the delight of his youthful mind; so much so, that he emphati- 
cally declared he used to read his verses with the same enthusiasm 
as others read their prayer-books and bibles. — He walked after 
the Poet in the streets of Newcastle, stopped, loitered behind, 
repassed him ; and in this manner, unobserved by the poor 
dying Bard, obtained the sketch which the Editor now presents 
to the public. The little handkerchief, or rather the remains 
of a handkerchief, in his hand, contained a herring, and some 
other small matter of food. 

Cunniugham had little consciousness of his own merit as a 
Poet, and seldom wrote but when urged by necessity. His 
highest ambition was to be considered a great Actor, for which 
he had no requisite either of person or talents. When in Mr* 
Bates's company of comedians, he had generally a benefit night 

at 



27 

The silver moon's enamoured beam, 

Steals softly through the night, 
To wanton with the winding stream, 

And kiss reflected light. 
To beds of state go balmy sleep, 

('Tis where you've seldom been,) 
May's vigil while the shepherds keep 

With Kate of Aberdeen ! 



at North Shields, and being much beloved, numbers flocked to 
it from Newcastle. He would declare afterwards to his friends, 
with his usual naivete, that so crowded a house was drawn by his 
theatrical eminence ! 

An occurrence not generally known gave the first shock to this 
good man's heart. His volume of Poems w T as dedicated to Gar- 
rick, whom in his admiration of theatrical talent he would natu- 
rally esteem the first man that ever existed. He trudged up to 
the metropolis to present his volume to this celebrated character. 
He saw him ; and, according to his own phrase, he was treated 
by him in the most humiliating and scurvy manner imaginable. 
Garrick assumed a cold and stately air ; insulted Cunningham 
by behaving to him as to a common beggar, and gave him a 
couple of guineas, accompanied with this speech: — " Players, 
Sir, as w^ell as Poets, are always poor." 

The blow was too severe for the Poet. He was so confused 
at the time, that he had not the use of his faculties, and indeed 
never recollected that he ought to have spurned the offer with 
contempt, till his best friend, Mrs. Slack, of Newcastle, remind- 
ed him of it by giving him a sound box on the ear, when he re- 
turned 



28 

Upon the green the virgins wait, 

In rosy chaplets gay, 
'Till morn unbar her golden gate, 

And give the promis'd May. 
Methinks I hear the maids declare 

The promis'd May, when seen, 
Not half so fragrant, half so fair, 

As Kate of Aberdeen ! 

Strike up the tabor's boldest notes, 
We'll rouse the nodding grove ; 

The nested birds shall raise their throats, 
And hail the maid I love : 



turned once more beneath her sheltering roof, and related his 
sad story. 

The repulse, however, preyed deeply on his spirits, and drove 
him to that fatal resource of disappointment,— dram drinking. 

When he had money he gave it away to people in distress, 
leaving himself pennyless. His kind protectress, Mis. Slack, 
used to empty his pockets before he went out, of the little that 
was in them, as one takes halfpence from a school-boy to prevent 
him from purchasing improper trash : How illustrative of the 
childish simplicity of his character! 

From his emaciated appearance in this portrait, he might be 
supposed very aged; yet from the inscription on his tomb-stone 
in the churchyard of St. John's, at Newcastle, it appears he was 
only 44 years old when he died. 

These particulars were collected from Mrs. Slack's daughter, 
and Mr. Thomas Bewick, both of Newcastle. 



m 

And see — the matin lark mistakes, 

He quits the tufted green ; 
Fond bird ! 'tis not the morning breaks, 

'Tis Kate of Aberdeen ! 

Now lightsome o'er the level mead, 

Where midnight fairies rove, 
Like them, the jocund dance we'll lead, 

Or tune the reed to love : 
For see the rosy May draws nigh, 

She claims a virgin queen ; 
And hark, the happy shepherds cry, 

" Tis Kate of Aberdeen !" 



THE LASS OF PATIE S MILL. 

In Sinclair's Statistical Account of Scotland, this 
song is localized (a verb I must use for want of an- 
other to express my idea) somewhere in the North of 
Scotland, and likewise is claimed by Ayrshire. — 
The following anecdote I had from the present Sir 
William Cunningham, of Robertland, who had it 
from the last John, Earl of Loudon. — The then 
Earl of Loudon, father to Earl John, before men- 
tioned, had Ramsay at Loudon, and one day walk- 



30 



ing together by the banks of Irvine water, near 
New-Mills, at a place yet called Patie's Mill, they 
were struck with the appearance of a beautiful coun- 
try girl. His lordship observed, that she would be 
a fine theme for a song. — Allan lagged behind in 
returning to Loudon Castle, and at dinner produced 
this identical song. 

The lass of Patie's mill, 

So bonny, blyth, and gay, 
In spite of all my skill, 

She stole my heart away. 
When tedding of the hay, 

Bare-headed on the green, 
Love 'midst her locks did play, 

And wanton'd in her een. 

Her arms white, round, and smooth, 

Breasts rising in their dawn, 
To age it would give youth, 

To press 'em with his hand : 
Thro' all my spirits ran 

An ecstasy of bliss, 
When I such sweetness fand 

Wrapt in a balmy kiss. 



31 

Without the help of art, 

Like flowers which grace the wild, 
She did her sweets impart, 

Whene'er she spoke or smil'd. 
Her looks they were so mild, 

Free from affected pride, 
She me to love beguil'd; 

I wish'd her for my bride. 

O had I all that wealth, 

Hopeton's high mountains^ fill, 
Insur'd lang life and health, 

And pleasure at my will ; 
I'd promise and fulfil, 

That none but bonny she, 
The lass of Patie's mill 

Shou'd share the same wi' me. 



* Thirty-three miles south-west of Edinburgh, where the Earl 
of Hopeton's mines of gold and lead are. 



32 



THE TURNIMSPIKE. 



THERE is a stanza of this excellent song for local 
humour, omitted in this set, — where I have placed 
the asterisms.* 



Hersell pe highland shentleman, 
Pe auld as Pothwell Prig, man ; 

And mony alterations seen 
Amang te lawland whig, man. 

Fal, &c. 

First when her to the lawlands came, 
Nainsell was driving cows, man ; 

There was nae laws about him's nerse, 
About the preeks or trews, man. 

Nainsell did wear the philabeg, 
The plaid prick't on her shouder ; 

The guid claymore hung pe her pelt, 
De pistol sharg'd wi' pouder. 

* Burns had placed the asterisms between the 9th and 10th 
verses. The verse is here restored. 



33 

But for whereas these cursed preeks, 
Wherewith mans nerse be locket, 

O hon! that e'er she saw the day! 
For a' her houghs be prokit. 

Every ting in de highlands now 

Pe turn'd to alteration ; 
The sodger dwall at our door-sheek, 

And tat's te great vexation. 

Scotland be turn't a Ningland now, ■ 
An' laws pring on de eager ; 

Nainsell wad durk him for his deeds, 
But oh ! she fear te sodger. 

Anither law came after dat, 
Me never saw de like, man; 

They mak a lang road on de crund, 
And ca' him Tumimspike, man; 

An' wow ! she pe a ponny road, 
Like Louden corn-rigs, man ; 

Where twa carts may gang on her, 
An' no preak ithers legs, man. 

They sharge a penny for ilka horse, 
(In troth, they'll no pe sheaper) ; 

For nought put gaen upo' the crund, 
And they gie me a paper. 

D 



34 

They tak the horse then py te head, 
And tere tey mak her stan, man ; 

Me tell tern, me hae seen te day, 
Tey had na sic comman, man. 

Nae doubt, Nainsell maun traw his purse. 
And pay tern what him likes, man ; 

I'll see a shudgment on his toor ; 
Tat filthy Turnimspike, man. 

But I'll awa to the Highland hills, 
Where te'il a ane dare turn her, 

And no come near your Turnimspike, 
Unless it pe to purn her. 

Fal, &c, 



HIGHLAND LADDIE. 

As this was a favorite theme with our later Sco- 
tish muses, there are several airs and songs of that 
name. That zchich I take to be the oldest, is to be 
found in the Musical Museum, beginning, I hae 
been at Crookie-den. # — One reason for my thinking 

* I hae been at Crookie-den* 

My bonnie laddie, Highland laddie ; 
Viewing Willie and his men, 

My bonie laddie, Highland laddie. 



* A vulgar cant name for Hell. 



There 



35 

so is, that Oswald has it in his collection by the name 
of The auld Highland Laddie. — It is also known by 
the name of Jinglan Johnie, which is a well-known 
song of four or five stanzas, and seems to be an ear- 
lier song than Jacobite times. As a proof of this, 
it is little known to the peasantry by the name of 
Highland Laddie ; while every body knows Jinglan 
Johnie. The song begins, 

Jinglan John, the meickle man, 

He met wi' a lass was blythe and bonie. 

Another Highland Laddie is also in the Museum, 
vol. v. which I take to be Ramsay s original, as he 
has borrowed the chorus " O my bonie Highland lad, 



There our faes that burnt and slew, 
My bonie laddie, Highland laddie ; 

There, at last, they gat their due, 
My bonie laddie, Highland laddie. 

Satan sits in his black neuk, 

My bonie laddie, Highland laddie ; 

Breaking sticks to roast the Duke, 
My bonie laddie, Highland laddie \ 

The bluidy monster gae a yell, 

My bonie laddie, Highland laddie ; 

And loud the laugh gaed round a' hell I 
My bonie laddie, Highland laddie. 

D 2 



36 



fyc" It consists of three stanzas, besides the chorus; 
and has humor in its composition — it is an excellent 
but somewhat licentious song, — It begins 

As I cam o'er Cairney-Mount, 

And down amang the blooming heather, &c. 

■This air, and the common Highland Laddie, seem 
only to be different sets. 

Another Highland Laddie, also in the Museum, 
vol. v. is the tune of several Jacobite fragments. — 
One of these old songs to it, only exists, as far as I 
hiozv, in these four lines — 

Whare hae ye been a' day, 

Bonie laddie, Highland laddie ? 

Down the back o' Bell's brae, 

Courtin Maggie, courtin Maggie. 

Another of this name is Dr. Arne 9 s beautiful air. 
called, the new Highland Laddie. # 



* The following observation was found in a memorandum- 
book belonging to Burns: 

The Highlanders 1 Prayer at Sheriff-Muir. 

" O L — d be thou with us ; but, if thou be not with us, be 
flot against us ; but have it bttiveen the red coats and us !" 



37 



THE GENTLE SWAIN. 



To sing such a beautiful air to such execrable 
verses, is downright # # # of common sense ! 
The Scots verses indeed are tolerable. 



HE STOLE MY TENDER HEART AWAY. 

THIS is an Anglo- Scotish production, but by no 
means a bad one. 



FAIREST OF THE FAIR. 

It is too barefaced to take Dr. Percys charm- 
ing song, and by the means of transposing a few 
English words into Scots, to offer to pass it for a 
Scots song. — / zoas not acquainted with the Editor 
until the first volume was nearly finished, else, had 
I known in time, I would have prevented such an 
impudent absurdity.* 

* These are Dr. Percy's English verses: 

O Nancy, wilt thou go with me, 

Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town ? 

Can silent glens have charms for thee, 
The lowly cot and russet gown? 

N* 



38 



THE BLAITHRIE O T, 



The following is a set of this song, which was 
the earliest song I remember to have got by heart. 
When a child, an old woman sung it to me, and I 
picked it up, every word, at first hearing. 

O Willy weel I mind, I lent you my hand, 
To sing you a song" which you did me command ; 
But my memory's so bad, I had almost forgot 
That you calFd it the gear and the blaithrie o't. 



No longer drest in silken sheen, 

No longer deck'd with jewels rare, 
Say, canst thou quit each courtly scene, 

Where thou wert fairest of the fair. 

O Nancy, when thou'rt far away, 

Wilt thou not cast a wish behind? 
Say, canst thou face the parching ray, 

Nor shrink before the wintry wind ? 

O can that soft and gentle mien 

Extremes of hardship learn to bear; 
Nor, sad, regret each courtly scene, 

Where thou wert fairest of the fair? 

O Nancy, 



39 



I'll not sing about confusion, delusion, or pride, 
I'll sing about a laddie was for a virtuous bride ; 
For virtue is an ornament that time will never rot, 
And preferable to gear and the blaithrie o't. 

Tho' my lassie hae nae scarlets or silks to put on, 
We envy not the greatest that sits upon the throne; 
I wad rather hae my lassie, tho' she cam in her smock. 
Than a princess wi' the gear and the blaithrie o't. 



O Nancy, canst thou love so true, 
Through perils keen with me to go ? 

Or when thy swain mishap shall rue, 
To share with him the pangs of woe? 

Say, shou'd disease, or pain befal, 
Wilt thou assume the nurse's care? 

Nor, wistful, those gay scenes recal, 
Where thou wert fairest of the fair? 

And when at last thy love shall die, 
Wilt thou receive his parting breath? 

Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh, 
And cheer with smiles the bed of death? 

And wilt thou o'er his breathless clay 
Strew flow'rs, and drop the tender tear? 

Nor then regret those scenes so gay, 
Where thou wert fairest of the fair? 



40 



Tho' we hae nae horses or menzie at command, 

We will toil on our foot, and we'll work wi' our hand ; 

And when wearied without rest, we'll find it sweet in 

any spot, 
And we'll value not the gear and the blaithrie o't. 

If we hae ony babies, we'll count them as lent ; 
Hae we less, hae we mair, we will ay be content ; 
For they say they hae mair pleasure that wins but a 

groat, 
Than the miser wi' his gear and the blaithrie o't. 

I'll not meddle wi' th' affairs o' the kirk or the queen ; 
They're nae matters for a sang, let them sink let them 

swim, 
On your kirk I'll ne'er encroach, but I'll hold it still 

remote, 
Sae tak this for the gear and the blaithrie o't. 



THE BLAITHRIE O T. 

When I think on this warld's pelf, 

And the little wee share I have o't to myself, 

And how the lass that wants it is by the lads forgot, 

May the shame fa' the gear and the blaithrie o't ! # 

* Shame fall the geer and the bladry o't, is the turn of an old 
Scotish song, spoken when a young handsome girl marries an 
old man, upon the account of his wealth. 

Kelly's Scots Proverbs. 



41 



Jockie was the laddie that held the pleugh, 

But now he's got gowd and gear eneugh ; 

He thinks nae mair of me that wears the plaiden coat; 

May the shame fa' the gear and the blaithrie o't ! 

Jenny was the lassie that mucked the byre, 

But now she is clad in her silken attire, 

And Jockie says he lo'es her, and swears he's me forgot; 

May the shame fa' the gear and the blaithrie o't ! 

But all this shall never daunton me, 

Sae lang's I keep my fancy free : 

For the lad that's sae inconstant, he's not worth a groat; 

May the shame fa' the gear and the blaithrie o't ! 



TWEED SIDE. 



IN Ramsay s Tea-table Miscellany, he tells us 
that about thirty of the songs in that publication 
were the zcorks of some young gentlemen of his ac- 
quaintance; which songs are marked with the letters 
D. C. %c*—Old Mr. Tytler, of Woodhouselee, the 

* Some of the best songs in the English language were written 
by contemporaries and countrymen of Ramsay's ; by Crawfurd, 

Hamilton 



4<2 

worthy and able defender of the beauteous queen of 
Scots, told me that the songs marked C, in the Tea- 
table, were the composition of a Mr. Crawford, of 
the house of Achinames, who was afterwards unfor- 
tunately drowned coming from France. — As Tytler 
was most intimately acquainted with Allan Ramsay, 
I think the anecdote may be depended on. Of con- 
sequence, the beautiful song of Tweed Side is Mr. 
Crawford's, and indeed does great honor to his po- 
etical talents. He zoas a Robert Crawford; the 
Mary he celebrates, was Mary Stuart, of the Castle- 
milk family* afterwards married to a Mr. John 
Relches. 

What beauties does Flora disclose ! 

How sweet are her smiles upon Tweed ! 
Yet Mary's still sweeter than those; 

Both nature and fancy exceed. 



Hamilton of Bangour, and Lord Binning: for we have nothing 
more perfect, in that species of composition, than Tweedside* 
u What beauties does Flora disclose f—" Go, plaintive sounds," — 
and, " Did ever Swain a Nymph adore." 

Lord Woodhouselee's Remarks on the Writings 
of Ramsay, p. 116. 
* If the reader refer to the note in page 62, he will there find 
that Mr. Walter Scott states this song to have been written in 
honour of another lady, a Bliss Mary Lilias Scott. 



43 



Nor daisy, nor sweet blushing rose, 
Nor all the gay flowers of the field, 

Nor Tweed gliding gently through those, 
Such beauty and pleasure does yield. 

The warblers are heard in the grove, 

The linnet, the lark, and the thrush, 
The blackbird, and sweet cooing dove, 

With music enchant every bush. 
Come, let us go forth to the mead, 

Let us see how the primroses spring, 
We'll lodge in some village on Tweed, 

And love while the feather'd folks sing. 

How does my love pass the long day ? 

Does Mary not tend a few sheep ? 
Do they never carelessly stray, 

While happily she lies asleep ? 
Tweed's murmurs should lull her to rest ; 

Kind nature indulging my bliss, 
To relieve the soft pains of my breast, 

I'd steal an ambrosial kiss. 

'Tis she does the virgins excel, 

No beauty with her may compare ; 

Love's graces around her do dwell ;* 
She's fairest, where thousands are fair. 



44 



Say, charmer, where do thy flocks stray f 
Oh! tell me at noon where they feed ; 

Shall I seek them on sweet winding Tay, 
Or the pleasanter banks of the Tweed ? 

I have seen a song, calling itself the original 
Tweed Side, and said to have been composed by a 
Lord Yester. It consisted of two stanzas, of which 
I still recollect the first. 

When Maggy and I was acquaint, 

I carried my noddle fu'hie ; 
Nae lintwhite on a' the green plain, 

Nor gowdspirik sae happy as me : 
But I saw her sae fair, and I lo'ed ; 

I woo'd, but I came nae great speed ; 
So now I maun wander abroad, 

And lay my banes far frae the Tweed.* 

* The last stanza runs thus :— Ed. 

To Meiggy my love I did tell, 

Saut tears did my passion express, 
Alas ! for I loo'd her o'erwell, 

An' the women loo sic a man less. 
Her heart it was frozen and cauld, 

Her pride had my ruin decreed ; 
Therefore I will wander abroad, 

And lay my banes far frae the Tweed, 



45 



THE BOATIE ROWS. 



The author of the Boatie Rotes, was a Mr. Ewen 
of Aberdeen. It is a charming display of womanly 
affection mingling with the concerns and occupations 
of life. It is nearly equal to There's nae luck 
about the house. 

weel may the boatie row, 
And better may she speed ; 
And leesome may the boatie row 
That wins my bairns bread : 

The boatie rows, the boatie rows, 
The boatie rows indeed; 
And weel may the boatie row 
That wins the bairns bread. 

1 cust* my line in Largo bay, 
And fishes I catchM nine ; 

There was three to boil, and three to fry, 

And three to bait the line : 

The boatie rows, the boatie rows, 

The boatie rows indeed; 

And happy be the lot of a' 

Who wishes her to speed. 

* Cast. — The Aberdeenshire dialect. 



46 

O weel may the boatie row, 
That fills a heavy creel, # 
And cleads us a' frae head to feet, 
And buys our porridge meal : 
The boatie rows, the boatie rows, 
The boatie rows indeed; 
And happy be the lot of a' 
That wish the boatie speed. 

When Jamie vow'd he would be mine, 
And w 7 an frae me my heart, 

muckle lighter grew my creel, 
He swore we'd never part : 

The boatie rows, the boatie rows, 
The boatie rows fu ? weel ; 
And muckle lighter is the load, 
When love bears up the creel. 

My kurtch I put upo' my head, 
And dress'd mysel' fu' braw; 

1 true my heart was douf an' wae, 
When Jamie gaed awa: 

But weel may the boatie row, 
And lucky be her part; 
And lightsome be the lassie's care, 
That yields an honest heart. 

* An ozier basket. 



47 

When Sawney, Jock, an Janetie, 

Are up and gotten lear, 

They'll help to gar the boatie row, 

And lighten a' our care : 

The boatie rows, the boatie rows, 

The boatie rows fu' weel; 

And lightsome be her heart that bears 

The murlain, and the creel. 

And when wi' age we're worn down, 
And hirpling round the door, 
They'll row to keep us dry and warm. 
As we did them before: — 
Then weel may the boatie row, 
She wins the bairns bread; 
And happy be the lot of a' 
That wish the boat to speed ! 



THE HAPPY MARRIAGE. 

JNOTHER, but very pretty Anglo- Scotish piece* 

* The Editor subjoins this song as a fair specimen of these 
Anglo-Scotish productions. 

How blest has my time been, what joys have I known, 
Since wedlock's soft bondage made Jessy my own ! 
So joyful my heart is, so easy my chain, 
That freedom is tasteless, and rovisvj a pain. 

Thro' 



48 



THE POSIE. 



It appears evident to me that Oswald composed 
his Roslin Castle on the modulation of this air. — In 
the second part of Oswald's, in the three first bars, 
he has either hit on a wonderful similarity to, or 
else he has entirely borrowed the three first bars of the 
old air; and the close of both tunes is almost exactly 
the same. The old verses to zohich it teas sung, 



Thro' walks grown with woodbines, as often we stray, 
Around us our boys and girls frolic and play : 
How pleasing their sport is ! the wanton ones see 
And borrow their looks from my Jessy and me. 

To try her sweet temper, oft times am I seen 
In revels all day with the nymphs on the green : 
Tho' painful my absence, my doubts she beguiles, 
And meets me at night with complacence and smiles. 

What tho' on her cheeks the rose loses its hue. 
Her wit and good humour bloom all the year thro' ; 
Time still, as he flies, adds increase to her truth, 
And gives to her mind what he steals from her youth. 

Ye shepherds so gay, who make love to ensnare, 
And cheat, with false vows, the too credulous fair - y 
In search of true pleasure, how vainly you roam [ 
To hold it for life, you must find it at home. 



49 

when I took down the notes from a country girl's 
voice had no great merit. — The following is a spe- 
cimen : 

There was a pretty May,* and a milkin she went ; 

Wi' her red rosy cheeks, and her coal-black hair : 
And she has met a young man a comin o'er the bent., 

With a double and adieu to thee fair May. 

O where are ye goin, my ain pretty May, 
Wi* thy red rosy cheeks, and thy coal-black hair ? 

Unto the yowes a milkin, kind sir, she says, 
With a double and adieu to thee fair May. 

What if I gang alang wi* thee, my ain pretty May, 
Wi' thy red rosy cheeks, and thy coal-black hair ; 

Wad I be aught the warse o' that, kind sir, she says, 
With a double and adieu to thee fair May. 
&c. &c. 



THE POSIE. 

O luve will venture in, where it daur na weel be seen, 
O luve wdll venture in, where wisdom ance has been, 
But I will down yon river rove, amang the wood sae 
green, 
And a 5 to pu a posie to my ain dear May. 

* Maid. 
vol. i E 



50 

The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the year, 
And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my dear, 
For she's the pink o' womankind, and blooms with- 
out a peer ; 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

I'll pu' the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps in view, 
For it's like a: baumy kiss o' her sweet bonie mou ; 
The hyacinth's for constancy wi' its unchanging blue, 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair, 
And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily there ; 
The daisy's for simplicity and unaffected air, 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o' siller grey, 
Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o' day, 
But the songster's nest within the bush I winna tak 
away ; 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

The woodbine I will pu', when the e'ening star is 

near, 
And the diamond draps o' dew shall be her e'er sae 

clear ; 
The violet's for modesty which weel she fa's to wear, 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 



51 

I'll tie the posie round wi' the silken band o' luve, 
And I'll place it in her breast, and I'll swear by a 

above, 
That to my latest draught o' life the band shall ne'er 

remuve, 
And this will be a posie to my ain dear May. 



MARY S DREAM. 



THE Mary here alluded to is generally supposed 
to be Miss Mary Macghie, daughter to the Laird 
of Airds, in Galloway. The poet was a Mr. 
Alexander Lowe, zvho likewise wrote another beau- 
tiful song, called Pompey's Ghost. — I have seen a 
poetic epistle from him in North America, where he 
now is, or lately was, to a lady in Scotland. — By 
the strain of the verses, it appeared that they allude 
to some love disappointment. 

The moon had climb'd the highest hill, 

Which rises o'er the source of Dee, 
And from the eastern summit shed 

Her silver light on towV and tree : 
When Mary laid her down to sleep, 

Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea ; 
When soft and low a voice was heard, 

Saying, Mary weep no more for me. 
k 2 



52 

She from her pillow gently rais'd 

Her head to ask, who there might be ; 
She saw young Sandy shiv'ring stand, 

With visage pale and hollow eye ; 
' O Mary, dear, cold is my clay, 

* It lies beneath a stormy sea ; 
i Far, far from thee, I sleep in death ; 

' So, Mary, weep no more for me. 

€ Three stormy nights and stormy days 

1 We toss'd upon the raging main ; 
1 And long we strove our bark to save, 

' But all our striving was in vain. 
6 E'en then when horror chnTd my blood, 

1 My heart was fill'd with love for thee : 
1 The storm is past, and I at rest ; 

1 So, Mary, weep no more for me. 

' O maiden dear, thyself prepare, 

' We soon shall meet upon that shore, 
i Where love is free from doubt and care, 

1 And thou and I shall part no more !' 
Loud crow'd the cock, the shadows fled, 

No more of Sandy could she see ; 
But soft the passing spirit said, 

u Sweet Mary, weep no more for me !" 



53 



THE JOLLY BEGGAR. 



Said to have been composed by King James,* on 
a frolic of his own. 

There was a jolly beggar, and a begging he was boun', 
And he took up his quarters into a land'art town, 
And we'll gang nae mair a roving, 

Sae late into the flight, 
And we'll gang nae mair a roving, boys, 
Let the moon shine ne'er sae bright ! 

He wad neither ly in barn, nor yet wad he in byre, 
But in ahint the ha' door, or else afore the fire, 
And we'll gang nae mair, fyc. 

The beggar's bed was made at e'en wi' good clean 

straw and hay, 
And in ahint the ha' door, and there the beggar lay. 
And we'll gang nae mair, fyc. 



* This Prince (whose character Dr. Percy thinks for wit and 
libertinism bears a great resemblance to that of his gay successor 
Charles II.) was noted for strolling about his dominions in dis- 
guise, and for his frequent gallantries with country girls. It is 
of the present ballad that Mr. Walpole has remarked, there is 
something very ludicrous in the young woman's distress when she 
thought her first favours had been thrown away upon a beggar. 



54 

Up raise the good man's dochter, and for to bar the 

door, 
And there she saw the beggar standin i' the floor, 
And zee 11 gang nae mair, fyc. 

He took the lassie in his arms, and to the bed he ran, 
O hooly, booly wi' me, sir, ye'll waken our goodman, 
And we'll gang nae mair, fyc. 

The beggar was a cunnin ]oon, and ne'er a word he 

spake, 
Until he got his turn done, syne he began to crack, 
And we'll gang nae mair, fyc. 

Is there ony dogs into this town? maiden, tell me true, 
And what wad ye do wi' them, my hinny and my 

dow ? 
And we'll gang nae mair, fyc. 

They'll rive a' my mealpocks, and do me meikle 

wrang, 
O dool for the doing o't ! are ye the puir man ? 
And we'll gang nae mair, fyc. 

Then she took up the mealpocks and flang them o'er 

the wa', 
The deil gae wi' the mealpocks, my maidenhead and a', 

And we'll gang nae mair, fyc. 



55 

I took ye for some gentleman, at least the laird of 

Brodie ; # 
O dool for the doing o't! are ye the puir bodie ? 
And we'll gang nae mair, fyc. 

He took the lassie in his arms, and gae her kisses 

three, 
And four-and-twenty hunder merk to pay the nurice- 

fee, 
And we'll gang nae mair> $$c* 

He took a horn frae his side, and blew baith loud 

and shrill, 
And four-and-twenty belted knights came skipping 

o'er the hill, 
And we'll gang nae mair> fyc. 

* In the course of a most interesting conversation which 
the Editor had with Mrs. Murray, (married to Dr. Murray, 
of Bath), authoress of the celebrated song of " Roy's Wife of 
Aldivalloch," the present song became the subject of her remark. 
She observed, " I have been told it was an ancestor of the pre- 
sent Brodie, of Brodie, who is mentioned in this old ballad. 
That family is one of the oldest and most honourable in the 
North of Scotland -.—The present Laird, whom I have known 
and respected for many years, falls nothing short in any of the 
good qualities of his ancestors ; and it is a high gratification to 
me to know that there are many young Brodies to continue the 
line of that most respectable clan." 



56 

And he took out his little knife, loot a' his duddies* 

fa', 
And he was the brawest gentleman that was amang 

them a\ 
And well gang nae mair, fyc. 

The beggar was a cliver loon, and he lap shoulder 

height, 
O ay for sicken quarters as I gat yesternight ! 
And we'll gang nae mair, <5fc. 



THE MAID THAT TENDS THE GOATS. 
BY MR. DUDGEON. 

This Dudgeon is a respectable farmer's son in 
Berwickshire. 



I WISH MY LOVE WERE IN A MIRE. 

J NEVER heard more of the words of this old 
song than the title. 

* Ragged cloathing. 



57 



ALLAN WATER. 



THIS Allan Water, which the composer of the 
music has honored with the name of the air, I have 
been told is Allan Water, in Straikallan. 



tarry woo. 



THIS is a very pretty song ; but I fancy that the 
first half stanza, as well as the tune itself, are much 
older than the rest of the words. 

Tarry woo, tarry woo, 
Tarry woo is ill to spin ; 
Card it well, card it well, 
Card it well ere ye begin. 
When 'tis carded, row'd and spun, 
Then the work is haflens done ; 
But when woven, drest and clean, 
It may be cleading for a queen. 

Sing, my bonny harmless sheep, 
That feed upon the mountain's steep, 
Bleating sweetly as ye go, 
Thro' the winter's frost and snow ; 



58 

Hart, and hynd, and fallow-deer, 
No be haff so useful are : 
Frae kings to him that hads the plow, 
Are all oblig'd to tarry woo. 

Up, ye shepherds, dance and skip, 
O'er the hills and vallies trip, 
Sing up the praise of tarry woo, 
Sing the flocks that bear it too ; 
Harmless creatures without blame, 
That dead the back, and cram the wame, 
Keep us warm and hearty fou; 
Leese me on the tarry woo. 

How happy is the shepherd's life, 
Far frae courts, and free of strife, 
While the gimmers bleat and bae, 
And the lambkins answer mae : 
No such music to his ear ; — - 
Of thief or fox he has no fear ; 
Sturdy Kent and Colly true, 
Will defend the tarry woo. 

He lives content, and envies none; 
Not even a monarch on his throne, 
Tho' he the royal sceptre sways, 
Has not sweeter holidays. 



59 

Who'd be a king, can ony tell, 
When a shepherd sings sae well ?* 
Sings sae well, and pays his due, 
With honest heart and tarry woo. 



GRAMACHREE. 



The song of Gramachree was composed by a 
Mr. Poe, a counsellor in Dublin. This anecdote 
I had from a gentleman who knew the lady, the 
" Molly," who is the subject of the song, and to 
whom Mr. Poe sent the first manuscript of his most 
beautiful verses. I do not remember any single line 
that has more true pathos than — 

How can she break that honest heart that wears her in 
its core ! 

But as the song is Irish, it had nothing to do in 
this collection. 

* The thought contained in these two lines is an imitation of 
a verse in a fine old song, called " The Miller," which serves to 
confirm the truth of Burns's observation on the age of " Tarry 
Woo."— Ed. 



GO 



THE COLLIERS BONIE LASSIE. 

THE first half stanza is much older than the days 
of Ramsay. — The old words began thus: 

The collier has a dochter, and, O, she's wonder bonie ! 
A laird he was that sought her, rich baith in lands and 

money. 
She wad na hae a laird, nor wad she be a lady ; 
But she wad hae a collier, the color o' her daddie. 



MY AIN KIND DEARIE — O. 

The old words of this song are omitted here, 
though much more beautiful than these inserted; 
which were mostly composed by poor Fergusso?i, in 
one of his merry humors. — The old words began 
thus : 

Til rowe thee o'er the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie, O, 
Fll rowe thee o'er the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie, O, 
Altho' the night were ne'er sae wat, 

And I were ne'er sae weary, O, 
Fll rowe thee o'er the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie, O. — 



61 



YESTREEN I HAD A PINT OF WINE. 

J THiyK this is the best love-song I ever com- 
posed. 

Tune — Banks of Banna. 

Yestreen I had a pint o' wine, 

A place where body saw na ; 
Yestreen lay on this breast o' mine 

The gowden locks of Anna. 
The hungry Jew in wilderness, 

Rejoicing o'er his manna, 
Was naething to my binny bliss 

Upon the lips of Anna. 

Ye monarchs tak the east and west, 

Frae Indus to Savannah! 
Gie me within my straining grasp 

The melting form of Anna. 
There I'll despise imperial charms, 

An empress or sultana, 
While dying raptures in her arms 

I give and take with Anna ! 

Awa thou flaunting god o' day ! 

Awa thou pale Diana ! 
Ilk star gae hide thy twinkling ray 

When I'm to meet my Anna. 



Come, in thy raven plumage, Night, 
(Sun, moon, and stars withdrawn a' ;) 

And bring an angel pen to write, 
My transports wi' my Anna. 



MARY SCOTT, THE FLOWER OF YARROW* 

Mr. Robertson in his statistical account of the 
parish of Selkirk, says, that Mary Scott, the Flower 
of Yarrow, teas descended from the Dryhope, and 
married into the Harden family. Her daughter 
was married to a predecessor of the present Sir 

* " Near the lower extremity of St. Mary's Lake, (a beautiful 
sheet of water, forming the reservoir from which the Yarrow 
takes its source,) are the ruins of Dryhope tower, the birth- 
place of Mary Scott, daughter of Philip Scott of Dryhope, and 
famous by the traditional name of the Flower of Yarrow. She 
was married to Walter Scott of Harden, no less renowned for 
his depredations, than his bride for her beauty. Her romantic 
appellation was, in latter days, with equal justice, conferred on 
Miss Mary Lilias Scott, the last of the elder branch of the Har- 
den family. Mr. Scott, in a note to Marmion, proceeds to re- 
late that, < he well remembers the talent and spirit of the latter 
Flower of Yarrow, though age had then injnred the charms 
which procured her the name ; and that the words usually sung 
to the air of Tweed-side, beginning, * What beauties does Flora 
disclose,' were composed in her honour.' 



OS 



Francis Elliot, of Stobbs, and of the late Lord 
Heathfield. 

There is a circumstance in their contract of mar- 
riage that merits attention, as it strongly marks the 
predatory spirit of the times. — The father-in-law 
agrees to keep his daughter, for some time after the 
marriage; for which the son-in-laio binds himself to 
give him the profits of the first Michaelmas-moon ? # 



* The time when the moss-troopers and cattle-drivers on the 
borders began their nightly depredations. Cattle-stealing for- 
merly was a mere foraging expedition ; and it has been remark- 
ed, that many of the best families in the North can trace their 
descent from these daring sons of the mountains. The produce 
(by way of a dowry to a laird's daughter) of a Michaelmas-moon, 
is proverbial ; and by the aid of Lochiel's lanthorn (the moon) 
these exploits were the most desirable things imaginable. Nay, 
to this day, a Highlander that is not a sturdy moralist, does not 
deem it a very great crime to lift (such is the phrase) a sheep 
now and then. If the reader be curious to contemplate one of 
these heroes in the cradle, he may read the following Highland 
halou, or Nursery Song : It is wildly energetic and strongly 
characteristic of the rude and uncultivated manners of the 
Border Islands. 

Hee, balou, my sweet wee Donald; 
Picture o' the great Clanronald ! 
Brawlie kens our wanton chief, 
Wha got my young Highland thief 

Leeze 



64 



DOWN THE BURN, DAVIE. 

I HAVE been informed, that the tune of Down 
the Bum, Davie, was the composition of David 
Maigh, keeper of the blood slough hounds,* belong- 
ing to the Laird of Riddel, in Tweeddale. 



Leeze me on thy bonny craigie ! 
An' thou live, thou'll steal a naigie ; 
Travel the country thro* and thro', 
And bring name a Carlisle cow. 

Thro' the lawlands, o'er the border, 
Weel, my babie, may thou furder : 
Herry the louns o' the laigh countrie ; — 
Syne to the Highlands hame to me ! 

* In the South of Scotland, especially in the counties adjoin- 
ing to England, there is another dog of a marvellous nature, 
called Suthounds (this is improper, according to Jamieson; it 
ought to be Sleuth-hund), because, when their masters are rob- 
bed, if they tell whether it be horse, sheep, or neat, that is stolen 
from them, immediately they pursue the scent of the thief, fol- 
lowing him or them through all sorts of ground, and water, till 
they find him out and seize him ; by the benefit whereof the 
goods are often recovered again. 

Lewis's Hist, of Great Brit. 1729. p. 56. 



65 



When trees did bud, and fields were green, 

And broom bloom'd fair to see ; 
When Mary was compleat fifteen, 

And love laughed in her e'e ; 
Blythe Davie's blinks her heart did move, 

To speak her mind thus free, 
Gang down the burn Davie, love, 

And I shall follow thee. 

Now Davie did each lad surpass, 

That dwalt on yon burn side, 
And Mary was the bonniest lass, 

Just meet to be a bride ; 
Her cheeks were rosie, red and white, 

Her een w T ere bonie blue ; 
Her looks were like Aurora bright, 

Her lips like dropping dew. 

As down the burn they took their way, 

What tender tales they said ! 
His cheek to her's he aft did lay, 

And with her bosom play'd; 



VOL. I. 



66 



What pass'd, I guess, was harmless play, 

And naething sure unmeet ; 
For, ganging hame, I heard them say, 

They lik'd a walk sae sweet ; 
And that they aften should return, 

Sic pleasure to renew ; 
Quoth Mary, Love, I like the burn, 

And ay shall follow you. # 



BLINK O ER THE BURN, SWEET BETTY. 

The old words, all that I remember , are, — 



Blink over the burn, sweet Betty, 

It is a cauld winter night; 
It rains, it hails, it thunders, 

The moon she gies nae light : 
It's a" for the sake o' sweet Betty. 

That ever I tint my way ; 
Sweet, let me lie beyond thee, 

Until it be break o* day. — 

* The last four lines of the third stanza, being somewhat ob- 
j ectionable in point of delicacy, are omitted. Barns altered 
these lines. Had his alteration been attended with his usual 
success, it would have been adopted. 



67 

O, Betty will bake my bread, 
And Betty will brew my ale, 

And Betty will be my love, 
When I come over the dale : 

Blink over the burn, sweet Betty, 
Blink over the burn to me, 

And while I hae life, dear lassie, 
My ain sweet Betty thou's be. — 



THERE S NAE LUCK ABOUT THE HOUSE. 

THIS is one of the most beautiful songs in the 
Scots, or any other language. — The two lines. 

And will I see his face again ! 
And will I hear him speak ! 

as well as the two preceding ones, are unequalled 
almost by any thing I ever heard or read: and the 
lines, 

The present moment is our ain, 
The neist we never saw — 

are worthy of the first poet. — It is long posterior to 
Ramsay's days.— About the year 1771, or 72, it 



68 



came first on the streets as a ballad; and I suppose 
the composition of the song was not much anterior 
to that period.* 

And are ye sure the news is true ? 
And are ye sure he's weel ? 
Is this a time to talk o' wark ? 
Ye jads, lay by your wheel ! 
Is this a time to talk of wark, 
When Colin's at the door ? 
Gie me my cloak I I'll to the quay, 
And see him come ashore. 

For there's nae luck about the house, 

There s nae luck ava; 

There's little pleasure in the house, 

When our gudeman's awa. 

Rise up, and mak a clean fire-side, 
Put on the muckle pat ; 

* The authoress of this unique ballad (supposed to be written 
in the character of a Mariner's Wife) was a Jean Adam, who 
instructed a few children in an obscure village of Scotland ; and 
who, after wandering about from place to place, and experienc- 
ing a variety of hardships and misfortunes, died in extreme 
wretchedness in the workhouse at Glasgow, in the year 1765. 

A more detailed account of this extraordinary woman may be 
seen in the Appendix, marked (a), at the end of this volume. 

Ed. 



69 

Gie little Kate her cotton gown, 

And Jock his Sunday's coat ; 

And mak their shoon as black as slaes, 

Their hose as white as snaw ; 

It's a' to please my ain gudeman, 

He likes to see them braw. 

For there's nae luck, fyc. 

There is twa hens upon the bauk, 

'Sbeen fed this month and mair ; 

Mak haste and thra their necks about, 

That Colin weel may fare ; 

And spread the table neat and clean, 

Gar ilka thing look braw ; 

It's a' for love of my gudeman,— 

For he's been long awa. 

For there's nae luck, #c. 

O gie me down my bigonets, 

My bishop-sattin gown ; 

For I maun tell the baillie's wife 

That Colin's come to town ; 

My Sunday's shoon they maun gae on, 

My hose o' pearl blue, 

It's a' to please my ain gudeman, 

For he's baith leel and true. 

For there's nae luck, fyc. 



70 



Sae true's his words, sae smooth's his speech, 

His breath like caller air, 

His very foot has music in't, 

When he comes up the stair : 

And will I see his face again ! 

And will I hear him speak ! 

I'm downright dizzy with the thought, 

In troth I'm like to greet ! 

For there's nae luck, fyc. 

The cauld blasts of the winter wind, 

That thrilled thro' my heart, 

They're a' blaun by ; I hae him safe, 

'Till death we'll never part ; 

But what puts parting in my head ? 

It may be far awa ; 

The present moment is our ain, 

The neist we never saw ! 

For there's nae luck, fyc. 

Since Colin's well, Fm well content, 

I hae nae mair to crave ; 

Could I but live to mak him blest, 

I'm blest aboon the lave ; 

And will I see his face again ! 

And will I hear him speak ! 

I'm downright dizzy with the thought, 

In troth I'm like to greet ! 



71 



JOHN HAY S BONIE LASSIE. 

JOHN Hays Bonie Lassie was daughter of John 
Hay, Earl, or Marquis of Tweeddale, and late 
Countess Dowager of Roxburgh. — She died at 
Broomlands, near Kelso, some time between the 
years 1720 and 1740. 



THE BONIE BKUCKET LASSIE. 

THE idea of this song is to me very original: the 
two first lines are all of it that is old. The rest of 
the song, as well as those songs in the Museum 
marked T, are the works of an obscure, tippling, 
but extraordinary body of the name of Tytler, com- 
monly known by the name of Balloon Tytler, from 
his having projected a balloon: A mortal, who, 
though he drudges about Edinburgh as a common 
printer, with leaky shoes, a sky-lighted hat, and 
knee-buckles as unlike as George-by-the-Grace-of- 
God, and Solomon-the-Son-of-David ; yet that 
same unknown drunken mortal is author and com- 
piler of three-fourths of Elliot's pompous Encyclo- 



72 

pedia Britannica, which he composed at half a 
guinea a week!* 

The bonie brucket lassie 

She's blue beneath the e'en ; 
She was the fairest lassie 

That danced on the green : 
A lad he loo'd her dearly, 

She did his love return ; 
But he his vows has broken, 

And left her for to mourn. 

" My shape," she says, " was handsome, 

My face was fair and clean ; 
But now I'm bonie brucket, 

And blue beneath the e'en : 
My eyes were bright and sparkling, 

Before that they turn'd blue ; 
But now they're dull with weeping, 

And a', my love, for you. 

" My person it was comely, 

My shape, they said, was neat; 
But now I am quite chang'd, 

My stays they winna meet : 

* An account of this eccentric character is printed in the 
Appendix to this volume, marked (b)> 



73 

A' night I sleeped soundly, 

My mind was never sad ; 
But now my rest is broken, 

Wi' thinking o' my lad. 

u O could I live in darkness, 

Or hide me in the sea, 
Since my love is unfaithful, 

And has forsaken me ! 
No other love I suffer'd 

Within my breast to dwell ; 
In nought I have offended, 

But loving him too well." 

Her lover heard her mourning, 

As by he chanc'd to pass, 
And press'd unto his bosom 

The lovely brucket lass : 
" My dear," he said, " cease grieving, 

Since that your love's sae true, 
My bonie brucket lassie 

I'll faithful prove to you." 



74 



SAE MERRY AS WE TWA HA E BEEN. 

THIS song is beautiful. — The chorus in particular 
is truli/ pathetic. — I never could learn any thing of 
its author. 

A lass that was laden with care 
Sat heavily under yon thorn ; 
I listened awhile for to hear, 

When thus she began for to mourn : 
Whene'er my dear shepherd was there, 

The birds did melodiously sing, 
And cold nipping winter did wear 
A face that resembled the spring. 
Sae merry as we twa hae been, 
Sae merry as we twa hae been, 
My heart it is like for to break, 
When I think on the days we hae seen. 

Our flocks feeding close by his side, 

He gently pressing my hand, 
I view'd the wide world in its pride, 

And laugh'd at the pomp of command ! 



15 

My dear, he would oft to me say, 

What makes you hard-hearted to me ? 

Oh ! why do you thus turn away 
From him who is dying for thee ? 
Sae merry, fyc. 

But now r he is far from my sight, 

Perhaps a deceiver may prove, 
Which makes me lament day and night, 

That ever I granted my love. 
At eve, when the rest of the folk 

Were merrily seated to spin, 
I set myself under an oak, 

And heavily sighed for him. 

Sae merry, fyc. 



THE BANKS OF FORTH. 

THIS air is Oswald's. 



BOTHWEL BANKS. 



This modern thing of Pinkerton's could never 
pass for old but among the sheer ignorant. What 
Poet of the olden time, or indeed of any time, ever 
said or wrote any thing like the line — " Without ae 



flouir his grave to crown !" This is not only the pe- 
dantry of tenderness, but the very bathos of bad 
writing* 

* The Editor requests the reader's pardon for the introduction 
of a few lines on this subject. He promises not to trespass on 
his good nature again. 

O, Bothwel bank ! again thy flowers 
Sprout comely wi' spring's warming showers : 
The daff'dil on the burn's gay brow, 
Wags his sweet head, o'erlaid wi' dew; 
The gowdcn cowslips, richly meal'd, 
Inlay the burn, by bush and bield ; 
And the blythe iark, from morning cloud, 
Lights 'mang the dew, and singe th loud. 

Sat sweet wert thou that simmer night, 
(All 'neath the moon's celestial light!) 
When my dear boy, upon my breast, 
Laid down his head awhile to rest : 
Heaven took his angel soul awa', 
And left him in my arms to fa'. 
He lay, like a lilie on the ground, 
Wi' a' his fair locks loose around, 

I howkedt a grave within my bower, 
And there I set this heavenly flower: — 
" And thou wilt spring again," I said, 
" And bloom when other flowers will fade ; 
tc Touched with immortal dew, thou'lt stand 
" A posie fit for God's own hand ; 
u Among the flowers of heaven thou'lt blaw, 
l< When earthly flowers will fade awa' !" 
i To lumk, to dig. 



77 



THE BUSH ABOON TRAOUAIR. 

THIS is another beautiful song of Mr. Crawford's 
composition. In the neighbourhood of Traquair, 
tradition still shews the old " Bush;' which, when 
I saw it in the year 1787, was composed of eight 
or nine ragged birches. The Earl of Traquair 
has planted a clump of trees near by, which he calk 
" The new Bush." 

Hear me, ye nymphs, and every swain, 

I'll tell how Peggy grieves me ; 
Tho' thus I languish and complain, 

Alas ! she ne'er believes me. 
My vows and sighs, like silent air, 

Unheeded never move her ; 
The bonny bush aboon Traquair, 

Was where I first did love her. 

That day she smil'd and made me glad, 

No maid seem'd ever kinder ; 
I thought myself the luckiest lad, 

So sweetly there to find her. 



78 



I try'd to sooth my am'rous flame, 
In words that I thought tender ; 

If more there pass'd, I'm not to blame, 
I meant not to offend her. 

Yet now she scornful flees the plain, 

The fields we then frequented ; 
If e'er we meet, she shews disdain, 

She looks as ne'er acquainted. 
The bonny bush bloom'd fair in May, 

Its sweets I'll ay remember ; 
But now her frowns make it decay, 

It fades as in December. 

Ye rural pow'rs, who hear my strains, 

Why thus should Peggy grieve me ? 
Oh ! make her partner in my pains, 

Then let her smiles relieve me: 
If not, my love will turn despair, 

My passion no more tender ; 
I'll leave the bush aboon Traquair, 

To lonely wilds I'll wander. 



79 



cromlet's lilt. # 



" In the latter end of the \6th century, the Chis- 
holms were proprietors of the estate of Cromlechs 
(now possessed by the Drummonds). The eldest son 
of that family zoas very much attached to a daugh- 
ter of Sterling of Ardoch, commonly known by the 
name of Fair Helen of Ardoch. 

* Since the first edition of the Reliques was published, the 
Editor has seen a Letter addressed to Dr. Anderson, of Edin- 
burgh, by a Gentleman of great literary acquirement, from 
which he has been permitted to make the following extract. 

" I thank you particularly for Cromek's Reliques of Burns, 
which are undoubtedly genuine, and breathing the same genius 
and the same infirmities with his former works. I will say a 
little of it. More science and better company, with his father's 
worth and sound principles, would have made him one of the 
best poets this country has produced. He is a bigot for laxity, 
religious and moral ; and hence that jumble of sentiments ! 
After telling me of his father's conversion to Socinianism, he 
added, c but he continued a Calvinist in his manners and conver- 
sation.' The thing I liked best was the account of Scotish 
Songs, which coincides with my own sentiments and theories. 
His curt, sarcastic remarks, are truly characteristic. Some of 
them are inaccurate. The Chisholm story isfelo de se. The Re- 
formation took place 1559 or 60, and great part of the Bishop's 
estate went to one of his own name. Little Meg Murray was 
not born then. The late Sir William Stirling told me, that it 
was a tradition in his family, that James the 6tb, in passing from 

Perth 



80 

"At that time the opportunities of meeting betwixt 
the sexes were more rare, consequently more sought 
after than now; and the Scottish ladies, far Jrom 
priding themselves on extensive literature, were 
thought sufficiently book-learned if they could make 
out the Scriptures in their mother tongue. Writing 
was entirely out of the line of female education: 
At that period the most of our young men of family 
sought a fortune, or found a grave, in France. 
Cromlus, when he went abroad to the war, was 
obliged to leave the management of his correspond- 
ence with his mistress to a lay brother of the monas- 
try of Dumblain, in the immediate neighbourhood 
of Cromlech, and near Ardoch. This man, unfor- 
tunately, was deeply sensible of Helen's charms. 
He artfidly prepossessed her with stories to the dis- 



Perth to Stirling, 1617, sent a servant to tell the Lady Ardoch, 
then a widow, to have all her children dressed, for he was coming 
to see her and them. They were all drawn up on the green. 
On the King's seeing them, he said, ' Madam, tell me how many 
are of them.' 6 1 only want your Majesty's help to make out 
the two Chalders.' (i. e. 31 were they.) The King afterwards 
ate a collop sitting on a stone in the close. I have been told 
that the Tutor of Ardoch, who was alive in 1715, could, when 
more than a hundred, drink a bottle of ale at a draught. Much 
did Lord Tinwald, then a lad, take pleasure in the Tutor's con* 
verse, who knew much of the history of private life." 



81 

advantage of Cromlus; and by misinterpreting of 
keeping up the letters and messages intrusted to his 
care, he entirely irritated both. All connection was 
broken off betwixt them: Helen was inconsolable, 
and Cromlus has left behind him, in the ballad 
called Cromlefs Lilt, a proof of the elegance of his 
genius, as well as the steadiness of his love. 

" When the artful monk thought time had suffici- 
ently softened Helen's sorrow, he proposed himself 
as a lover: Helen was obdurate: but at last, over- 
come by the persuasions of her brother zoith whom 
she lived, and who, having a family of thirty-one 
children, was probably very well pleased to get her 
off his hands, she submitted, rather than consented 
to the ceremony; but there her compliance ended; 
and, when forcibly put into bed, she started quite 
frantic from it, screaming out, that after three 
gentle taps on the wainscot, at the bed head, she 
heard Cromlus's voice, crying, Helen, Helen, mind 
me. # Cromlus soon after coming home, the treachery 
of the confident was discovered, — her marriage dis- 
annulled, — and Helen became lady Cromlecks" 

N. B. Marg. Murray, mother to these thirty-one 
children, was daughter to Murray of Strewn, one 
of the seventeen sons of Tullybardine, and whose 

* Remember me 
VOL. I. G 



82 

youngest son, commonly called the Tutor of Ar dock, 
died in the year 1715, aged 111 years. 

cromlet's ltlt. 

Since all thy vows, false maid, 

Are blown to air, 

And my poor heart betray 'd 

To sad despair, 

Into some wilderness, 

My grief I will express, 

And thy hard-heartedness, 

O cruel fair. 

Have I not graven our loves 

On every tree 
In yonder spreading groves, 

Tho 5 false thou be : 
Was not a solemn oath 
Plighted betwixt us both, 
Thou thy faith, I my troth, 

Constant to be ? 

Some gloomy place Til find, 

Some doleful shade, 

Where neither sun nor wind 

E'er entrance had : 



S3 

Into that hollow cave, 
There will I sigh and rave, 
Because thou dost behave 

So faithlessly. 

Wild fruit shall be my meat, 

I'll drink the spring, 

Cold earth shall be my seat : 
For covering 

I'll have the starry sky 

My head to canopy, 

Until my soul on hy 

Shall spread its wing, 

I'll have no funeral fire, 

Nor tears for me : 
No grave do I desire, 

Nor obsequies : 
The courteous Red-breast he 
With leaves will cover me, 
And sing my elegy 

With doleful voice. 

And when a ghost I am, 

I'll visit thee, 

O thou deceitful dame, 

Whose cruelty 



84 

Has kill'd the kindest heart 
That e'er felt Cupid's dart, 
And never can desert 

From loving thee. 



MY DEAKIE, IF THOU DIE. 

ANOTHER beautiful song of Crawford's. 

Love never more shall give me pain, 

My fancy's fix'd on thee, 
Nor ever maid my heart shall gain, 

My Peggy, if thou die. 
Thy beauty doth such pleasure give, 

Thy love's so true to me, 
Without thee I can never live, 

My dearie, if thou die. 

If fate shall tear thee from my breast, 

How shall I lonely stray ! 
In dreary dreams the night I'll waste, 

In sighs, the silent day. 
I ne'er can so much virtue find, 

Nor such perfection see ; 
Then I'll renounce all woman kind, 

My Peggy, after thee. 



85 

No new-blown beauty fires my heart, 

With Cupid's raving rage ; 
But thine, which can such sweets impart, 

Must all the world engage. 
TTwas this, that like the morning sun. 

Gave joy and life to me ; 
And when its destin'd day is done, 

With Peggy let me die. 

Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, 

And in such pleasure share ; 
You who its faithful flames approve, 

With pity view the fair: 
Restore my Peggy's wonted charms, 

Those charms so dear to me ! 
Oh ! never rob them from these arms ; 

I'm lost if Peggy die. 



SHE HOSE AND LET ME IN. 

THE old set of this song, which is still to be 

found in printed collections, is much prettier than 

this : but somebody, I believe it was Ramsay, took 

it into his head to clear it of some seeming inde^ 



86 



licacies, and made it at once more chaste and more 
dull. 



GO TO THE EWE-BUGHTS, MARION. 

I am not sure if this old and charming air be of 
the South, as is commonly said, or of the North of 
Scotland. — There is a song apparently as antient 
as Ewe-bughts, Marion, which sings to the same 
tune, and is evidently of the North. — It begins 
thus : 

The Lord o'Gordon had three dochters, 

Mary, Marget, and Jean, 
They wad na stay at bonie Castle Gordon, 

But awa to Aberdeen. 



Will ye go to the ew-bughts, Marion, 
And wear in the sheep wi' me ; 

The sun shines sweet, my Marion, 
But nae haff sae sweet as thee. 



87 

O Marion's a bonny lass, 

And the blyth blinks in her e'e ; 

And fain wad I marry Marion, 
Gin Marion wad marry me. 

There's gowd in your garters, Marion, 

And silk on your white hause-bane ; 
Fu' fain wad I kiss my Marion, 

At e'en when I come hame. 
There's braw lads in Earnslaw, Marion, 

Wha gape, and glowr with their e'e, 
At kirk when they see my Marion ; 

But nane of them lo'es li^e me. 

I've nine milk-ews, my Marion, 

A cow and a brawny quey, 
I'll gie them a' to my Marion, 

Just on her bridal-day : 
And ye's get a green sey apron, 

And waistcoat of the London brown, 
And wow ! but ye will be vap'ring, 

Whene'er ye gang to the town. 

I'm young and stout, my Marion ; 

Nane dance like me on the green ; 
And gin ye forsake me, Marion, 

I'll e'en draw up wi' Jean : 



88 

Sae put on your pearlins, Marion, 

And kyrtle of the cramasie : 
And soon as my chin has nae hair on, 
I shall come west, and see ye, # 



LEWIS GORDON.f 



This air is a proof how one of our Scots tunes 
comes to be composed out of another. I have one 
of the earliest copies of the song, and it has pre- 
fixed. 

Tune of Tarry Woo. — ■ 

Of which tune, a different set has insensibly varied 
into a different air. — To a Scots critic, the pathos 
of the line, 

« Tho' his back be at the waV* 

— must be very striking. — It needs not a Jacobite 
prejudice to be affected with this song. The sup- 

* This is marked in the Tea Table Miscellany as an old song 
with additions. — Ed. 

t " Lord Lewis Gordon, younger brother to the then Duke of 
Gordon, commanded a detachment for the Chevalier, and ac« 
quitted himself with great gallantry and judgment. He died in 
1754." 



89 

posed author of " Lewis Gordon" was a Mr, Geddes, 
priest, at Shenval, in the Ainzie. 

Oh ! send Lewie Gordon hame, 

And the lad I winna name ; 

Tho' his back be at the wa', 

Here's to him that's far awa! 
Oh hon! my Highland man. 
Oh, my bonny Highland man ; 
Weel would I my true-love ken, 
Amang ten thousand Highland men.. 

Oh ! to see his tartan-trews, 
Bonnet blue, and laigh-heel'd shoes ; 
Philabeg aboon his knee ; 
That's the lad that I'll gang wi' ! 
Oh hon! fyc. 

The princely youth that I do mean, 
Is fitted for to be a king : 
On his breast he wears a star ; 
You'd tak him for the God of War, 
Oh hon ! fyc. 

Oh to see this Princely One, 
Seated on a royal throne ! 
Disasters a' would disappear, 
Then begins the Jub'lee year | 
Oh hon! fyc, 



90 



OH ONO CHRIO. # 



Dr. Blacklock informed me that this song was 
composed on the infamous massacre of Glencoe. 

Oh ! was not I a weary weight ! 

Oh ! ono chri, oh ! ono chri — 
Maid, wife, and widow, in one night ! 
When in my soft and yielding arms, 
O ! when most I thought him free from harms. 
Even at the dead time of the night, 
They broke my bower, and slew my knight. 
With ae lock of his jet black hair, 
I'll tye my heart for evermair ; 
Nae sly-tongued youth, or flatt'ring swain, 
Shall e'er untye this knot again ; 
Thine still, dear youth, that heart shall be, 
Nor pant for aught, save heaven and thee. 
(The chorus repeated at the end of each line.) 



ILL NEVER LEAVE THEE. 

This is another of Crawford's songs, but I do 
not think in his happiest manner. — What an ab- 

* A corruption of O hone a rie' signifying — Alas for the prince, 
or chief. 



91 

surdity >, to join such names, as Adonis and Mary 
together. 



CORN RIGS ARE BONIE. 

ALL the old words that ever I could meet with to 
this air were the following, which seem to have been 
an old chorus. 

O corn rigs and rye rigs, 

O corn rigs are bonie ; 
And where'er you meet a bonie lass, 

Preen up her cockernony. 



THE MUCKING OF GEORDIE S BYAR. 

The chorus of this song is old; the rest is the 
work of Balloon Tytler. 



WAUKIN O* THE FAULD. 

THERE are two stanzas still sung to this tune, 
which I take te be the original song whence Ramsay 



92 

composed his beautiful song of- that name in the 
Gentle Shepherd. — It begins, 

O will ye speak at our town, 
As ye come frae the fauld, &c. 

I regret that, as in many of our old songs, the 
delicacy of this old fragment is not equal to its wit 
and humor. 

THE WAUKING OF THE FAULDS. 

My Peggy is a young thing, 
Just enter'd in her teens, 
Fair as the day, and sweet as May, 
Fair as the day, and always gay. 
My Peggy is a young thing, 

And I'm not very auld, 
Yet well I like to meet her at 
The wauking of the fauld. 

My Peggy speaks sae sweetly, 

Whene'er we meet alane, 
I wish nae mair to lay my care, 
I wish nae mair of a' that's rare, 
My Peggy speaks sae sweetly, 

To a' the lave I'm cauld ; 
But she gars a' my spirits glow, 
At wauking of the fauld. 



My Peggy smiles sae kindly, 
Whene'er I whisper love, 
That I look down on a' the town, 
That I look down upon a crown, 
My Peggy smiles sae kindly, 

It makes me blyth and bauld, 
And naething gi'es me sic delight. 
As wauking of the fauld. 

My Peggy sings sae saftly, 

When on my pipe I play ; 
By 2l the rest it is confest, 
By a' the rest, that she sings best. 
My Peggy sings sae saftly, 

And in her sangs are tald, 
With innocence, the wale of sense. 
At wauking of the fauld. 



MAGGIE LAUDER. 



THIS old song, so pregnant with Scottish naiviete* 
and energy, is much relished by all ranks, notwith- 
standing its broad wit and palpable allusions. — Its 
language is a precious model of imitation : sly, 



94 

sprightly y and forcibly expressive. — Maggie's tongue 
wags out the nicknames of Rob the Piper with all 
the careless lightsomeness of unrestrained gaiety. 

Wha wad na be in love 

Wi' bonny Maggie Lauder ? 

A piper met her gaun to Fife, 

And speir'd what was't they ca'd her ; — 

Right scornfully she answer'd him, 

Begone, you hallanshaker ! # 

Jog on your gate, you bladderskate,f 

My name is Maggie Lauder. 

Maggie, quo 5 he, and by my bags, 
I'm fidgin' fain to see thee ; 
Sit down by me, my bonny bird, 
In troth I winna steer thee : 



* Hallanshaker is what the old people call a rambling mischiev- 
ous fellow; one who sods up the burns, ties the doors, and 
works other pranks of innocent merriment. The hallan is a 
bundle composed of the longest broom, entwisted with willows, 
placed moveable to ward the wind from the door. The partition 
which divided the spence from the hall was frequently named a 
" Hallan," being formed of similar materials. 

t Bladderskate. This ought to be blether-sky te. " Ye blether- 
ing lowne"—" Ye vile skyte," are terms of familiar reproach still 
in use, and are innocently applied to those satiric rogues who 

have 



95 

For I'm a piper to my trade, 
My name is Rob the Ranter ; 
The lasses loup as they were daft, 
When I blavv up my chanter. 

Piper, quo' Meg, hae ye your bags ? 
Or is your drone in order ? 
If ye be Rob, I've heard o' you, 
Live you upo' the border ? # 
The lasses a', baith far and near, 
Have heard o' Rob the Ranter ; 
I'll shake my foot wi' right gude will, 
Gif you'll blaw up your chanter. 



have the art of mingling falsehood and truth with admirable 
art, annoying with it the sage remarks of the sober-minded and 
wise, 

* Probably a temporary and convenient residence of the 
minstrel. The emigration of Highland reapers to the lowlands 
of Scotland has brought the old favourite pipes again into vogue. 
On the day-close of harvest-toil the girls bind up their locks ; the 
men wash their sweaty faces, and throw aside their gray socks. 
On the little green plat before the farm hall, the old bandsmen 
come out and see their children dancing and making merry. 
The Piper seats himself on the knocking-stone, and strikes into 
one of those wild northern airs which stirs even old age to the 
frolics and pranks of youth. 

In talking on this subject to an intelligent Scotsman, he told 

the 



96 

Then to his bags he flew wi' speed, 

About the drone he twisted ; 

Meg up and wallop'd o'er the green, 

For brawly could she frisk it. 

Weel done! quo' he — play up! quo' she; 

Weel bobb'd ! quo' Rob the Ranter ; 

'Tis worth my while to play indeed, 

When I hae sic a dancer. 

Weel hae ye playM your part, quo' Meg, 
Your cheeks are like the crimson ; 
There's nane in Scotland plays sae weel, 
Since we lost Habbie Simpson. # 



the Editor, that when a boy (not more than twenty years ago) 
he was greatly struck with the sight of many of these old High- 
land Pipers, straying, solitary, from parish to parish, reciting the 
deeds of the clans. 

In every parish there were houses which the open-heartedness 
of their possessors made welcome nightly habitations to these 
vagrant remnants of ancient chivalry. The piper's arrival 
spread like wild-fire among the little country villages. The old 
decayed men, the lads and lasses, with their rocks and knitting 
apparatus, flocked around the old piper, who, seated next the 
gudeman, on the lang-settle, in the intervals of his tunes touched 
on the tales of other times. The barbarity of William, in the vale 
of Glencoe ; the Rade of Mar; or the year 1715 ; and the awful suf- 
ferings of misguided Catholic loyalty in 1745, were told with the' 
exquisite mastery of native eloquence. — 

* The celebrated Piper of Kilbarchan. 



97 



Fve liv'd in Fife, baith maid and wife, 
These ten years and a quarter ; 
Gin' ye should come to Enster Fair, 
Speir ye for Maggie Lauder. 



TEANENT-MUIR. 
Tune— GlLLICRANKIE. 



" TRANENT-MUIR" was composed by a Mr. 
Skirvin, a very zvorthy respectable farmer, near 
Haddington. I have heard the anecdote often, 
that Lieut. Smith, whom he mentions in the ninth 
stanza, came to Haddington after the publication 
of the song, and sent a challenge to Skirvin to meet 
him at Haddington, and answer for the unworthy 
manner in which he had noticed him in his song. — - 
" Gang awa back," said the honest farmer, " and 
tell Mr. Smith that I hae na leisure to come to 
Haddington; but tell him to come here; and Til 
tak a look o him; and if I think Tm fit to f edit 
him, Til fecht him ; and if no — Til do as he did x 
—I'll rin awa." — 



VOL. I. 



98 



TRANENT MUIR. # 

The Chevalier, f being void of fear, 

Did march up Birsle brae, man, 
And thro' Tranent, e'er he did stent, 

As fast as he could gae, man : 
While general Cope did taunt and mock, 

Wi' mony a loud huzza, man ; 
But e'er next morn proclaimed the cock, 

We heard another craw, man. 

The brave Lochiel,J as I heard tell, 
Led Camerons on in clouds, man ; 

The morning fair, and clear the air, 
They loos'd with devilish thuds, man : 

* A. field of battle, better known by the name of Preston- 
pans, where prince Charles Stewart, commonly called the Young 
Chevalier, at the head of his Highland army, completely routed 
the English forces, under the command of Sir John Cope, who 
was afterward tryed by a court-martial for his conduct in this 
battle, and acquitted. He is said to have left the field in .such 
haste that he never once stopped his horse, nor looked back, till 
he got to Haddington, which is seven or eight miles off. This 
action happened Sep. 22, 1745. 

t Printed from Ritson's copy. 

$ Donald Cameron of Lochiel, chief of the Clan Cameron, a 
gentleman of great bravery, and of the most amiable disposi- 
tion. 



99 

Down guns they threw, and swords they drew, 
And soon did chace them afT, man ; 

On Seaton-Crafts they buft their chafts, 
And gart them rin like daft, man. 

The bluff dragoons swore blood and ? oons, 

They'd make the rebels run, man ; 
And yet they flee when them they see, 

And winna lire a gun, man : 
They turn'd their back, the foot they brake, 

Such terror seiz'd them a', man ; 
Some wet their cheeks, some fyl'd their breeks, 

And some for fear did fa', man. 

The volunteers prick'd up their ears, 

And vow gin they were crouse, man ; 
But when the bairns saw't turn to earn'st, 

They were not worth a louse, man ; 
Maist feck gade hame ; O fy for shame ! 

They'd better stay'd awa', man, 
Than wi' cockade to make parade, 

And do nae good at a', man. 



tion. He was wounded at the battle of Culloden, and died in 
France colonel of a regiment, which his grateful master had 
procured him, as a small reward and compensation for his great 
services and misfortunes, ..... 1748. 

H 2 



100 

Menteith the great,* when hersell sh — t, 

Un'wares did ding him o'er, man; 
Yet wad nae stand to bear a hand, 

But aff fou fast did scour, man ; 
O'er Soutra hill, e'er he stood still, 

Before he tasted meat, man : 
Troth he may brag of his swift nag, 

That bare him aff sae fleet, man. 

And Simpsonf keen, to clear the een 

Of rebels far in wrang, man. 
Did never strive wi' pistols five, 

But gallop'd with the thrang, man r 
He turn'd his back, and in a crack 

Was cleanly out of sight, man ; 
And thought it best ; it was nae jest 

Wi' Highlanders to fight, man. 

'Mangst a' the gang nane bade the bang 
But twa, and ane was tane, man ; 

* The minister of Longformacus, a volunteer ; who, happen- 
ing to come the night before the battle, upon a Highland 
gelding, easing nature at Preston, threw him over, and carried 
his gun as a trophy to Cope's camp. 

t Another volunteer Presbyterian minister, who said he would 
convince the rebels of their error by the dint of his pistols ; 
having, for that purpose, two in his pockets, two in his holsters^ 
and one in his belt. 



101 

For Campbell rade, but Myrie* staid, 
And sair he paid the kain,f man ; 

Fell skelps he got, was war than shot 
Frae the sharp-edg'd claymore, man; 

Frae many a spout came running out 
His reeking-het red gore, man. 

But Gard'nerJ brave did still behave 
Like to a hero bright, man ; 

His courage true, like him were few, 
That still despised flight, man ; 



* Mr. Myrie was a student of physic, from Jamaica; he en- 
tered as a volunteer in Cope's army, and was miserably mangled 
by the broad-sword. 

t i. e. He suffered severely in the cause. 

£ James Gardiner, colonel of a regiment of horse. This gen- 
tleman's conduct, however celebrated, does not seem to have 
proceeded so much from the generous ardour of a noble and he- 
roic mind, as from a spirit of religious enthusiasm, and a bigoted 
reliance on the Presbyterian doctrine of predestination, which 
rendered it a matter of perfect indifference whether he left the 
field or remained in it. Being deserted by his troop r he was 
killed by a Highlander, with a Lochaber axe. 

Colonel Gardiner having, when a gay young man, at Paris, 
made an assignation with a lady, was, as he pretended, not 
only deterred from keeping his appointment, but thoroughly re- 
claimed from all such thoughts in future, by an apparition. See 
his Life by Doddridge. 



102 

For king and laws, and country's cause, 
In honour's bed he lay, man ; 

His life, but not his courage, fled, 
While he had breath to draw, man. 

And major Bowie, that worthy soul, 

Was brought down to the ground, man ; 
His horse being shot, it was his lot 

For to get mony a wound, man : 
Lieutenant Smith, of Irish birth, 

Frae whom he call'd for aid, man, 
Being full of dread, lap o'er his head, 

And wadna be gainsaid, man. 

He made sic haste, sae spur'd his beast, 

'Twas little there he saw, man ; 
To Berwick rade, and safely said, 

The Scots were rebels a', man ; 
But let that end, for well 'tis kend 

His use and wont to lie, man • 
The Teague is naught, he never faught, 

When he had room to flee, man. 

And Caddell drest, amang the rest, 
With gun and good claymore, man, 

On gelding grey he rode that way, 
With pistols set before, man ; 



103 

The cause was good, he'd spend his blood, 
Before that he would yield, man ; 

But the night before he left the cor, 
And never fac'd the field, man. 

But gallant Roger, like a soger, 

Stood and bravely fought, man ; 
I'm wae to tell, at last he fell, 

But mae down wi' him brought, man : 
At point of death, w? his last breath, 

(Some standing round in ring, man), 
On's back lying flat, he wav'd his hat, 

And cry'd, God save the king, man. 

Some Highland rogues, like hungry dogs, 

Neglecting to pursue, man, 
About they fac'd, and in great haste 

Upon the booty flew, man ; 
And they, as gain, for all their pain, 

Are deck'd wi spoils of war, man ; 
Fow bald can tell how her nainsell 

Was ne'er sae pra before, man. 

At the thorn-tree, which you may see 
Bewest the meadow-mill, man ; 

There mony slain lay on the plain, 
The clans pursuing still, man. 



104 

Sic unco' hacks, and deadly whacks, 

I never saw the like, man ; 
Lost hands and heads cost them their deads, 

That fell near Preston-dyke, man. 

That afternoon, when a' was done, 

I gaed to see the fray, man ; 
But had I wist what after past, 

I'd better staid away, man : 
On Seaton sands, wi' nimble hands, 

They pick'd my pockets bare, man ; 
But I wish ne'er to drie sick fear, 

For a' the sum and mair, man. 



TO THE WEAVERS GIN YE GO. 

The Chorus of this song is old, the rest of it is 
mine. — Here, once for all, let me apologize for 
many silly compositions of mine in this work. Many 
beautiful airs wanted words; in the harry of other 
avocations, if I could string a parcel of rhymes to- 
gether any tiling near tolerable, I was fain to let 
them pass. He must be an excellent poet indeed, 
whose every performance is excellent. 



105 

STREPHON AND LYDIA. 
Tune — The Gordons had the guiding o't. 

The following account of this song I had from 
Dr. Blacklock. 

The Strephon and Lydia mentioned in the song 
were perhaps the loveliest couple of their time. 
The gentleman was commonly known by the name 
of Beau Gibson. The lady was the Gentle Jean, 
celebrated somewhere in Mr. Hamilton* of Ban- 
gours poems. — Having frequently met at public 
places, they had formed a reciprocal attachment, 

* u With the elegant and accomplished William Hamilton 
of Bangour, whose amiable manners were long remembered 
with the tenderest recollection by all who knew him, Mr. Home 
lived in the closest habits of friendship. The Writer of these 
Memoirs has heard him dwell with delight on the scenes of their 
youthful days; and he has to regret that many an anecdote, to 
which he listened with pleasure, was not committed to a better 
record than a treacherous memory. Hamilton's mind is pictured 
in his verses. They are the easy and careless effusions of an 
elegant fancy and a chastened taste ; and the sentiments they 
convey are the genuine feelings of a tender and susceptible 
heart, which perpetually owned the dominion of some favourite 
unstress ; but whose passion generally evaporated in song, and 
made no serious or permanent impression. His poems had an 
additional charm to his cotemporaries, from being commonly 
addressed to his familiar friends of either sex." 

Life of Lord Kaimes, vol. i. p. 64. 
Hamilton died in March, 1754, aged 50. 



106 

which their friends thought dangerous, as their re- 
sources were by no means adequate to their tastes 
and habits of life. To elude the bad consequences 
of such a connexion, Strephon was sent abroad with 
a commission, and perished in Admiral Vemoris 
expedition to Carthagena. 

The author of the song teas William Wallace, 
"Esq. of Cairnhi/l, in Ayrshire. 

STREPHON AND LYDIA. 

All lovely on the sultry beach, 

Expiring Strephon lay, 
No hand the cordial draught to reach, 

Nor chear the gloomy way. 
Ill-fated youth ! no parent nigh, 

To catch thy fleeting breath, 
No bride, to fix they swimming eye, 

Or smooth the face of death. 

Far distant from the mournful scene, 

Thy parents sit at ease, 
Thy Lydia rifles all the plain, 

And all the spring to please. 
Ill-fated youth! by fault of friend, 

Not force of foe depressed, 
Thou fall'st, alas ! thyself, thy kind, 

Thy country, unredressed ! 



107 



I M O £R YOUNG TO MARRY YET. 

The chorus of this song is old. — The rest of it, 
such as it is, is mine.* 

I am my mammy's ae bairn, 

Wi' unco folk I weary, sir ; 
And lying in a man's bed, 

I'm fley'd wad mak me irie, sir. 
Tm o'er young, Tm o'er young, 
I'm o'er young to many yet ; 
Tm o'er young, 'twad be a sin 
To take mefrae my mammy yet. 

Hallowmass is come and gane, 
The nights are lang in winter, sir ; 

And you an' I in ae bed, 

In trowth, I dare na venture, sir. 
I'm o'er young, fyc. 



* There is a stray, characteristic verse, which ought to be 

restored. 

My miniiie coft me a new gown, 
The kirk maun hae the gracing o't; 

Ware I to lie wi' you, kind sir, 
I'm feared ye'd spoil the lacing o't. 
Vm o'er young, fyc. 



108 

Fu' loud and shill the frosty wind 
Blaws thro' the leafless timmer, sir; 

But if ye come this gate again, 
I'll aulder be gin simmer, sir. 
Vm oer young, <5>c. 



MACPHERSON S FARLWEL. 

MACPHERSON, a daring robber, in the begin- 
ning of this century, was condemned to be hanged 
at the assizes at Inverness. He is said, when under 
sentence of death, to have composed this tune, 
which he called his own lament, orfareweL* 

Farewel ye dungeons, dark and strong, 

The wretch's destinie ! 
Macpherson's time will not be long 

On yonder gallows tree. 

Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, 
Sae dauntingly gaed he; 

He play' d a spring, and danc'd it round, 
Below the gallows tree, 

* See a Notice of Macpherson in the Preface to these 
volumes. 



log 

Oh, what is death, but parting breath ? — 

On mony a bloody plain 
I've dar'd his face; and in this place 

I scorn him yet again ! 

Sae rantingly, fyc. 

Untie these bands from off my hands, 

And bring to me my sword ; 
And there's no a man in all Scotland, 

But I'll brave him at a word. 
Sae rantingly, fyc. 

I've liv'd a life of sturt and strife, 

I die by treacherie : 
It burns my heart I must depart, 

And not avenged be ! 

Sae rantingly, fyc. 

Now, farewel light, thou sunshine bright, 

And all beneath the sky : 
May coward shame distain his name, 

The wretch that dares not die ! 
Sae rantingly, fyc. 



110 



MY JO JANET. 



JOHNSON, the publisher,* with a foolish delicacy, 
refused to insert the last stanza of this humorous 
ballad. 

Sweet sir, for your courtesie, 

When ye come by the Bass then, 
For the luve ye bear to me, 

Buy me a keeking-glass, then. — 
Keek into the draw-well, 

Janet, Janet; 
And there ye'll see your bonny sell, 
My Jo, Janet. 

Keeking in the draw-well clear, 

What if I should fa' in, 
Syne a' my kin will say and swear, 

I drown'd my sell for sin. — 
Haud the better be the brae, 
Janet, Janet, 
Haud the better be the, brae, 
My Jo, Janet. 

* Of the Scots Musical Museum. 



Ill 

Good sir, for your courtesie, 

Coming through Aberdeen, then, 
For the luve ye bear to me, 

Buy me a pair of shoon, then. — 
Clout the auld, the nezo are dear, 

Janet, Janet; 
Ae pair may gain ye hdf a year, 
My Jo, Janet. 

But what if dancing on the green, 

And skipping like a maukin.* 
If they should see my clouted shoon, 

Of me they will be taukin. — 
Dance ay laigh, and late at e'en, 

Janet, Janet; 
Syne a their fauts zcill no be seen, 
My Jo, Janet. 

Kind sir, for your courtesie, 

When ye gae to the Cross, then, 
For the luve ye bear to me, 

Buy me a pacing-horse, then.— 
Pace upo' your spinnin-wheel, 

Janet, Janet; 
Pace upo' your spinnin-wheel, 
My Jo, Janet. 

* A hare. 



112 

My spinnin-wheel is auld and stiff, 

The rock o't winna stand, sir, 
To keep the temper-pin in tiff, 

Employs right aft my hand, sir.- 
Mak the best o't that ye can, 
Janet, Janet; 
But like it never zmle a man, 
My Jo, Janet. 



THE SHEPHERD S COMPLAINT. 

THE words by a Mr. JR. Scott, from the town or 
neighbourhood of Biggar. 



THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY. 

I COMPOSED these stanzas standing under the 
falls of Aberfeldy, at> or near, Monm. 

Tune — Birks of Abergildie. 

Now simmer blinks on flowery braes, 
And o'er the chrystal streamlets plays ; 
Come let us spend the lightsome days 
In the birks of Aberfeldy. 



li: 



Bonny lassie, will ye go, 
Will ye go, will ye go, 

Bonny lassie, will ye go, 
To the birks of Aberfeldy? 

The little birdies blythly sing, 
While o'er their heads the hazels hing ; 
Or lightly flit on wanton wing, 
In the birks of Aberfeldy. 
Bonny lassie, fyc. 

The braes ascend like lofty wa's, 
The foaming stream, deep-roaring, fa's, 
O'erhung wi' fragrant spreading shaws, 
The birks of Aberfeldy. 
Bonny lassie, fyc. 

The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flowers, 
White o'er the linn the burnie pours, 
And rising, weets wi' misty showers, 
The birks of Aberfeldy. 
Bonny lassie, tyc. 

Let fortune's gifts at random flee, 
They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me, 
Supremely blest wi' love and thee, 
In the birks of Aberfeldy. 
Bonny lassie, fyc. 

VOL. I I 



114 



THE HIGHLAND LASSIE, O. 

THIS teas a composition of mine in very early 
life, before I was known at all in the world. My 
Highland Lassie was a warm-hearted, charming 
young creature as ever blessed a man with generous 
love. After a pretty long tract of the most ardent 
reciprocal attachment, we met by appointment, on 
the second Sunday of May, in a sequestered spot by 
the Banks of Ayr, where we spent the day in taking 
afarewel, before she should embark for the West- 
Highlands, to arrange matters among her friends 
for our projected change of life. At the close of 
Autumn following she crossed the sea to meet me at 
Greenock, where she had scarce landed when she was 
seized with a malignant fever, which hurried my 
dear girl to the grave in a few days, before I could 
even hear of her illness.* 

* There are events in this transitory scene of existence, sea- 
sons of joy or of sorrow, of despair or of hope, which as they 
powerfully affect us at the time, serve as epochs to the history 
of our lives. They may be termed the trials of the heart. — We 
treasure them deeply in our memory, and as time glides silently 
away, they help us to number our days. Of this character was 
the parting of Burns with his Highland Mary, that interesting 

female, 



115 

Nae gentle dames, tho' ne'er sae fair, 
Shall ever be my Muse's care ; 
Their titles a' are empty shew ; 
Gie me my Highland lassie, O. 

Within the glen sae bushy, 0, 
Aboon the plain sae rashy, O, 
I set me down wi 9 right good will, 
To sing my Highland lassie, O. 

were yon hills and vallies mine, 
Yon palace and yon gardens fine ! 
The world then the love should know 

1 bear my Highland lassie, O. 

Within the glen, #c. 



female, the first object of the youthful Poet's love. This adieu 
was performed with ail those simple and striking ceremonials 
which rustic sentiment has devised to prolong tender emotions 
and to inspire awe. The lovers stood on each side of a small 
purling brook ; they laved their hands in its limpid stream, and 
holding a bible between them, pronounced their vows to be 
faithful to each other. They parted — never to meet again! 

The anniversary of Mary Campbell's death (for that was her 
name), awakening in the sensitive mind of Burns the most lively 
emotion, he retired from his family, then residing on the farm 
of Ellisland, and wandered, solitary, on the banks of the Nith, 
and about the farm-yard, in the extremest agitation of mind, 

nearly 
I ft 



116 

But fickle fortune frowns on me, 
And I maun cross the raging sea ; 
But while my crimson currents flow, 
I'll looe my Highland lassie, O. 
Within the glen, fyc. 

Altho' thro' foreign climes I range, 
I know her heart will never change, 
For her bosom burns with honor's glow. 
My faithful Highland lassie, O. 
Within the glen, fyc. 

For her I'll dare the billow's roar ; 
For her I'll trace a distant shore ; 
That Indian wealth may lustre throw 
Around my Highland lassie, O. 
Within the glen, fyc. 

She has my heart, she has my hand, 
By secret truth and honor's band ! 
'Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low, 
I'm thiue, my Highland lassie, O. 



nearly the whole of the night: His agitation was so great, that 
he threw himself on the side of a corn stack, and there conceived 
his sublime and tender elegy — his address To Mary in Heaven. 

Ed, 



117 



Farewel, the glen sae bushy, O! 
Farewel, the plain sae rashy, O ! 
To other lands I now must go, 
To sing my Highland lassie, O ! 



GUDE YILL COMES, AND GUDE YILL GOES. 

THIS song sings to the tune called The bottom of 
the punch bowl, of which a very good copy may be 
found in M* Gibbon's Collection. 

gude yill comes, and gude yill goes, 
Gude yill gars me sell my hose, 

Sell my hose, and pawn my shoon, 
For gude yill keeps my heart aboon. 

1 had sax owsen in a pleugh, 

And they drew teugh and weel eneugh 5 
I drank them a' ane by ane, 
For gude yill keeps my heart aboon. 
Gude yill, fyc. 

I had forty shillin in a clout, 
Gude yill gart me pyke them out ; 
That gear should moule I thought a sin, 
Gude yill keeps my heart aboon. 
Gude yill, #c. 



118 

The meikle pot upon my back, 
Unto the yill-house I did pack ; 
It melted a' wi' the heat o' the moon, 
Gude yill keeps my heart aboon. 
Gude yill, fyc. 

Gude yill hauds me bare and busy, 
Gars me jink wi' the servant hizzie, 
Stand in the kirk when I hae done, 
Gude yill keeps my heart aboon. 

Gude yill, fyc. 

I wish their fa' may be a gallows, 
Winna gie gude yill to gude fellows, 
And keep a soup 'till the afternoon, 
Gude yill keeps my heart aboon. 

O gude yill comes, and gude yill goes, 
Gude yill gars me sell my hose, 
Sell my hose, and pawn my shoon, 
Gude yill keeps my heart aboon. 

* These are old words altered by Burns. The original verses 
were recovered by the Editor, and are published among the 
" Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song." 



119 



FIFE, AND A THE LANDS ABOUT IT. 

This song is Dr. Blacklock's. He, as well as J ; 
often gave Johnson verses, trifling enough, perhaps^ 
but they served as a vehicle to the music. 



WERE NA MY HEART LIGHT I WAD DIE. 

LORD Hailes, in the notes to his collection of 
ancient Scots poems, says that this song was the 
composition of a Lady Grissel Baillie, daughter of 
the first Earl of Marchmont, and wife of George 
Baillie, of Jerviswood. 

There was anes a May, # and she loo'd na men, 
She biggit her bonny bow'r down in yon glen; 
But now she cries dool ! and a well-a-day ! 
Come down the green gate, and come here away. 
But now she cries, fyc. 

When bonny young Johny came o'er the sea, 
He said he saw naithing sae lovely as me ; 
He hecht me baith rings and mony braw things ; 
And were na my heart light I wad die. 
He hecht me, fyc. 



120 



He had a wee titty that loo'd na me, 

Because I was twice as bonny as she ; 

She rais'd such a pother 'twixt him and his mother, 

That were na my heart light, I wad die. 

She raised, &;c. 

The day it was set, and the bridal to be, 
The wife took a dwam, and lay down to die ; 
She main'd and she grain'd out of dolour and pain, 
Till he vow'd he never wad see me again. 
She maind, fyc. 

His kin was for ane of a higher degree, 
Said, What had he to do with the like of me ? 
Albeit I was bonny, I was na for Johny : 
And were na my heart light, I wad die. 
Albeit I wad, fyc. 

They said, I had neither cow nor caff, 
Nor dribbles of drink rins throw the draff, 
Nor pickles of meal rins throw the mill-ee ; 
And were na my heart light, I wad die, 
Nor pickles of, fyc. 

His titty she was baith wylie and slee, 
She spy'd me as 1 came o'er the lee ; 
And then she ran in and made a loud din, 
Believe your ain een, an ye trow na me. 
And then she, fyc. 



121 

His bonnet stood ay fou round on his brow ; 
His auld ane looks ay as well as some's new: 
But now he lets't wear ony gate it will hing, 
And casts himself dowie upon the corn-bing. 

But now he, fyc. 

And now he gaes ' dandering' # about the dykes, 
And a' he dow do is to hund the tykes : 
The live-lang night he ne'er steeks his ee, 
And were na my heart light, I wad die. 
The live-lang, fyc. 

Were I young for thee, as I hae been, 
We shou'd hae been galloping down on yon green, 
And linking it on the lily-white lee ; 
And wow gin I were but young for thee ! 
And linking, fyc. 

* So Lord Hailes; Ramsay and others read c drooping.* 



THE YOUNG MAN S DREAM. 

THIS song is the composition of Balloon Tytler. 



122 



strathallan's lament.* 

This air is the composition of one of the wor- 
thiest and best-hearted men living — Allan Master- 
ton, schoolmaster in Edinburgh, As he and I were 
both sprouts ofjacobitism, we agreed to dedicate the 
words and air to that cause. 

To tell the matter of fact, except when my pas- 
sions were heated by some accidental cause, myjaco- 
bitism was merely by way of vive la bagatelle. 

Thickest night, o'erhang my dwelling 
Howling tempests o'er me rave ! 

Turbid torrents, wintry swelling, 
Still surround my lonely cave ! 

Crystal streamlets gently flowing, 
Busy haunts of base mankind, 

Western breezes softly blowing, 
Suit not my distracted mind. 



* Supposed to mean James, Viscount Strathallan, whose 
father, Viscount William, was killed at the battle of Culloden. 
He escaped to France. 



123 

In the cause of right engaged, 
Wrongs injurious to redress ; 

Honour's war we strongly waged, 
But the heavens deny'd success* 

Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us, 
Not a hope that dare attend, 

The wide world's all before us — 
But a world without a friend I 



TJP TN THE MORNING EARLY. 

THE chorus of this is old; the two stanzas are 



mine. 



Up in the mornings no for me, 

Up in the morning early ; 
When a! the hills are cover'd w? snaw, 

I'm sure it's winter fairly. 

Cold blaws the wind frae east to west, 

The drift is driving sairly ; 
Sae loud and shrill's I hear the blast, 

I'm sure it's winter fairly. 



J 24 

The birds sit chittering in the thorn, 
A' day they fare but sparely ; 

And lang's the night frae e'en to morn, 
I'm sure it's winter fairly. 
Up in the morning, #<;. 



THE TEARS OF SCOTLAND. 

Dr. Blacklock told me that Smollet, who was at 
bottom a great jacobite, composed these beautiful 
and pathetic verses on the infamous depredations of 
the Duke of Cumberland, after the battle of CuU 
loden. 

Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn 
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn ! 
Thy sons, for valour long renown'd, 
Lie slaughter'd on their native ground? 
Thy hospitable roofs no more 
Invite the stranger to the door; 
In smoaky ruins sunk they lie, 
The monuments of cruelty^ 



i'25 

The wretched owner sees, afar, 
His all become the prey of war ; 
Bethinks him of his babes and wife, 
Then smites his breast and curses life. 
Thy swains are famish'd on the rocks, 
Where once they fed their wanton flocks : 
Thy ravish'd virgins shriek in vain ; 
Thy infants perish on the plain. 

What boots it then, in ev'ry clime, 
Thro' the wide-spreading waste of time, 
Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise, 
Still shone with undiminish'd blaze ; 
Thy tow'ring spirit now is broke, 
Thy neck is bended to the yoke : 
What foreign arms could never quell, 
By civil rage and rancour fell. 

The rural pipe and merry lay, 

No more shall cheer the happy day : 

No social scenes of gay delight 

Beguile the dreary winter night : 

No strains, but those of sorrow, flow, 

And nought be heard but sounds of woe ; 

While the pale phantoms of the slain, 

Glide nightly o'er the silent plain. 



126 

Oh ! baneful cause ! — oh ! fatal morn, 
Accurs'd to ages yet unborn ! 
The sons against their fathers stood ; 
The parent shed his childrens' blood ! 
Yet, when the rage of battle ^ceas'd, 
The victor's soul was not appeas'd : 
The naked and forlorn must feel 
Devouring flames, and murd'ring steel. 

The pious mother doom'd to death, 
Forsaken, wanders o'er the heath, 
The black wind whistles round her head, 
Her helpless orphans cry for bread ; 
Bereft of shelter, food, and friend, 
She views the shades of night descend ; 
And, stretch'd beneath th' inclement skies, 
Weeps o'er her tender babes, and dies. 

Whilst the warm blood bedews my veins, 
And unimpaired remembrance reigns, 
Resentment of my country's fate 
Within my filial breast shall beat ; 
And, spite of her insulting foe, 
My sympathizing verse shall flow : 
Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn 
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn ! 



127 



BRAW, BRAW LADS OF G ALLA-W ATER. 

/ HAVE heard a concluding verse sung to these 
words — it is, 

An' ay she came at e'enin fa% 

Amang the yellow broom, sae eerie, 

To seek the snood o' silk she tint ; — 
She fan na it, but gat her dearie. 



Braw, braw lads of Galla-water ; 

O, braw lads of Galla-water ! 
Ill kilt my coat aboon my knee, 

And follow my love thro' the water. 

Sae fair her hair, sae brent her brow, 
Sae bonny blue her een, my dearie; 

Sae white her teeth, sae sweet her mou', 
The mair I kiss, she's ay my dearie. 

O'er yon bank, and o'er yon brae, 
O'er yon moss amang the heather ; 

I'll kilt my coat aboon my knee, 

And follow my true love thro' the water. 



128 

Down amang the broom, the broom, 
Down amang the broom, my dearie; 

The lassie lost a silken snood, 

That cost her mony a blirt and blearie. 



WHAT WILL I DO GIN MY HOGGIE* DIE. 

Dr. Walker, who was Minister at Moffat in 
1772, and is now (1791) Professor of Natural 
Histoiy, in the University of Edinburgh, told Mr. 
Riddel the following anecdote concerning this air. 
— He said that some gentlemen, riding a few years 
ago through Liddesdale, stopped at a hamlet con- 
sisting of a few houses, called Mosspaul; when they 
were struck with this tune, which an old woman, 
spinning on a rock, at her door, was singing. — All 
she could tell concerning it was, that she was taught 
it when a child, and it was called, What will I do 
gin my Hoggie die. No person, except a few fe- 
males at Mosspaul, knew this fine old tune; which 
in all probability, would have been lost, had not one 

* Hoggie , a young sheep, before it has lost its first fleece, 
termed a Harvest Hog, from being smeared at the end of har- 
vest, when it ceases to be called a lamb.— - Jamieson. 



129 

of the gentlemen , zoho happened to have a flute with 
him, taken it down. 

What will I do gin my hoggie die ? 

My joy, my pride, my hoggie ; 
My only beast, I had nae mae, 

And wow ! but I was vosrie. 



**&* 



The lee-lang night we-watch'd the fauld, 

Me and my faithfu' doggie ; 
We heard nought but the roaring linn, 

Amang the braes sae scroggie. 

But the houlet cry'd frae the castle wa, 

The blitter frae the boggie, 
The tod reply'd upon the hill; 

I trembled for my hoggie. 

When day did daw, and cocks did craw, 

The morning it was foggie ; 
An unco' tyke lap o'er the dyke, 

And maist has killed my hoggie, # 

* These words are certainly by Burns, though the Editor has 
heard them attributed to another writer, whose name he has 
forgotten. It is a silly subject treated sublimely. It has much 
of the fervour of the " Vision." 

VOL. I. K 



ISO 



I DREAm'd I LAY WHERE FLOWERS WERE 
SPRINGING. 

These two stanzas I composed when I was seven- 
teen, and are among the oldest of my printed 
pieces. 

I dream'd I lay where flowers were springing'. 

Gaily in the sunny beam ; 
Listening to the wild birds singing, 

By a falling, chrystal stream : 
Straight the sky grew black and daring ; 

Thro' the woods the whirlwinds rave ; 
Trees with aged arms were warring, 

O'er the swelling, drumlie wave. 
Such was my life's deceitful morning, 

Such the pleasures I enjoy'd; 
But lang or noon, loud tempests storming, 

A' my flow'ry bliss destroyed. 
Tho' fickle fortune has deceived me, 

She pvomisM fair, and perform'd but ill ; 
Of mony a joy and hope bereav'd me, 

I bear a heart shall support me still. 



131 



ah! the poor shepherds mournful fate. 

Tune — Gallashiels. 

The old title, Sour Plums o' Gallashiels, proba- 
bly was the beginning of a song to this air, zohich 
is now lost. 

The tune of Gallashiels was composed about the 
beginning of the present century by the Laird of 
GallashieFs piper.* 



THE BANKS OF THE DEVON. 
Tune — Rhannerach dhon na chri. 

THESE verses were composed on a charming girl, 
a Miss Charlotte Hamilton, who is now married to 
James M' Kit rick Adair, Esq. physician. She is 
sister to my worthy friend, Gavin Hamilton, of 
Mauchline; and was born on the banks of Ayr, 
but was, at the time I wrote these lines, residing at 
Herveyston, in Clackmannanshire, on the romantic 

* The Piper of Gallashiels was the subject of an unpublished 
mock-heroic Poem, by Hamilton of Bangour.—Ed. 

K 2 



132 



banks of the little river Devon. — I first heard the 
air from a lady in Inverness* and got the notes 
taken down for this zvork. 

How pleasant the banks of the clear winding Devon, 

With green spreading bushes and flow'rs blooming 
fair! 
But the bonniest flow'r on the banks of the Devon, 

Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr : 
Mild be the sun on this sweet-blushing flow'r, 

In the gay rosy morn as it bathes in the dew ; 
And gentle the fall of the soft vernal show'r, 

That steals on the evening each leaf to renew ! 

O spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, 

With chill, hoary wing as ye usher the dawn ! 
And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizest, 

The verdure and pride of the garden or lawn ! 
Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies, 

And England triumphant display her proud rose ; 
A fairer than either adorns the green vallies, 

Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows 



133 



MILL, MILL O. — 

THE original, or at least a song evidently prior 
to Ramsay's, is still extant. — It rims thus: 

The mill, mill 0, and the kill, kill 0, 
And the coggin o y Peggy's wheel 0, 

The sack and the sieve, and a 3 she did leave, 
And danc'd the miller's reel 0. 

As I cam down yon waterside, 

And by yon shellin-hill O, 
There I spied a bonie bonie lass, 

And a lass that I lov'd right weel O.— * 



Beneath a green shade I fand a fair maid 
Was sleeping sound and still O, 

A' lowing wi' love, my fancy did rove, 
Around her with good will-O : 



* The remaining two stanzas, though pretty enough, partake 
rather too much of the rude simplicity of the " Olden time" to 
be admitted here. — Ed. 



134 

Her bosom I press'd, but, sunk in her rest, 

She stir'd na my joy to spill-O ; 
While kindly she slept, close to her I crept, 

And kiss'd, and kiss'd her my fill-O, 

Oblig'd by command in Flanders to land, 

T' employ my courage and skill-O, 
Frae 'er quietly I staw, hoist'd sails and awa, 

For wind blew fair on the hill-O. 
Twa years brought me hame, where loud-frasing fame 

Tald me with a voice right shrill-O, 
My lass, like a fool, had mounted the stool, # 

Nor ken'd wha'd done her the ill-O. 

Mair fond of her charms, with my son in her arms, 

A ferlying speerd how she fell-O ; 
Wi' the tear in her eye, quoth she, let me die, 

Sweet sir, gin I can tell-O. 
Love gae the command, I took her by the hand, 

And bad her a' fears expel-O, 
And nae mair look wan, for I was the man 

Wha had done her the deed mysell-O. 

My bonny sweet lass, on the gowany grass, 
Beneath the shilliug-hill-O ;f 

* Of repentance. 

t Where they winnow the chaff from the corn. 



J 35 

If I did offence, I'se make ye amends, 

Before I leave Peggy's mill-O. 
O ! the mill, mill-O, and the kill, kill-O, 

And the cogging of the wheel-O, 
The sack and the sieve, a' thae ye man leave, 

And round with a soger reel-O. 



WALY, WALY. 



In the west country I have heard a different 
edition of the second stanza. — Instead of the four 
lines, beginning with, "When cockle-shells/' &c, 
the other way ran thus: — 

O wherefore need I busk my head, 
Or wherefore need I kame my hair, 

Sin my fause luve has me forsook, 

And says he'll never luve me mair. — * 



O waly waly up the bank, 

And waly waly down the brae, 
And waly waly by yon burn-side, 

Where I and my love were wont to gae. 

* So it is iu the Tea Table Miscellany, from which the present 
copy is printed, — Ed. 



136 

I leant my back unto an aik, 
I thought it was a trustie trie ; 

But first it bow'd, and syne it brake, 
And sae my true love did lyghtlie me. 

O waly waly gin love be bonny 

A little time while it is new ; 
But when its auld it waxeth cauld, 

And fades awa ? like morning-dew. 
O wherfore shu'd I busk my head ? 

Or wherfore shu'd I kame my hair ? 
For my true love has me forsook, 

And says he'll never loe me mair. 

Now Arthur-seat sail be my bed, 

The sheits shall neir be fyl'd by me : 
Saint Anton's well sail be my drink, 

Since my true love has forsaken me. 
Marti'mas wind, whan wilt thou blaw, 

And shake the green leaves aff the trie ? 
O gentle death, whan wilt thou cum ? 

For of my life I am wearie. 

'Tis not the frost that freezes fell, 
Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie ; 

'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry, 
But my love's heart grown cauld to me. 



137 

Whan we came in by Glasgowe town. 
We were a comely sight to see ; 

My love was clad i' th' black velvet, 
And I mysell in cramasie. 

But had I wist before I kisst, 

That love had been sae ill to win, 
I had lockt my heart in a case of gowd, 

And pinn'd it wi' a siller pin. 
Oh, oh ! if my young babe were borne, 

And set upon the nurse's knee, 
And I mysell were dead and gone, 

For a maid again He never be !* 



DUNCAN GRAY. 



Dr. Blacklock informed me that he had often 
heard the tradition that this air was composed by a 
carman in Glasgow. 

Duncan Gray cam here to woo, 

Ha, ha, the wooing oH, 
On blythe yule night when we were fou, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 

* This song is quoted in a musical medley published in 1600. 



138 

Maggie coost her head fu' high, 
Look'd asklent and unco skeigh ; 
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh ; 
H a, ha, the wooing oH. 

Duncan fleech'd and Duncan pray'd : 

Ha, ha, fyc. 
Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig # 

Ha, ha, fyc. 
Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, 
Grat his e'en baith bleert and blin, 
Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn ; 

Ha, ha, fyc. 

Time and chance are but a tide, 

Ha, ha, fyc. 
Slighted love is sair to bide, 

Ha, ha, fyc. 
Shall I, like a fool, quo' he, 
For a haughty hizzie die ; 
She may gae to — France for me ! 

Ha, ha, fyc. 

How it comes let doctors tell, 
Ha, ha, fyc» 

* A well-known rock in the frith of Clyde. 



139 

Meg grew sick — as he grew heal, 

Ha, ha, fyc. 
Something in her bosom wrings, 
For relief a sigh she brings ; 
And O, her e'en, they spak sic things ! 

Ha, ha, #c. 

Duncan was a lad o' grace, 

Ha, ha, fyc. 
Maggie's was a piteous case, 

Ha, ha, fyc. 
Duncan could na be her death, 
Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath ; 
Now they're crouse and canty baith, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 



DUMBARTON DRUMS. 

THIS is the last of the West Highland airs; and 

from it, over the whole tract of country to the con* 

fines of Tweed-side, there is hardly a tune or song 

that one can say has taken its origin from any place 

or transaction in that part of Scotland.— The oldest 

Ayrshire reel, is Stewarton Lasses, which zws made 



140 

by the father of the present Sir Walter Montgomery 
Cunningham, alias Lord Lyle; since which period 
there has indeed been local music in that country 
in great plenty. — Johnie Faa is the only old song 
which I could ever trace as belonging to the exten- 
sive county of Ayr. 



TODLEN HAME. 



THIS is, perhaps, the first bottle song that ever 
was composed. 

When I've a saxpence under my thumb, 

Then I'll get credit in ilka town: 

But ay when I'm poor they bid me gae by ; 

O ! poverty parts good company. 
Todlen hame, todlen hame, 
Coudna my hove come todlen hame ( ? 

Fair-fa' the goodwife, and send her good sale, 
She gi'es us white bannocks to drink her ale, 
Syne if her tippony chance to be sma, 
We'll tak a good scour o't, and ca't awa'« 
Todlen hame, todlen hame, 
As round as a neep* come todlen hame. 
* A neep^-z turnip. 



141 

My kimmer and I lay down to sleep, 

And twa pintstoups at our bed-feet ; 

And ay when we waken'd, we drank them dry : 

What think ye of my wee kimmer and I ? 
Todlen but, and todlen hen* 
Sae round as my hove comes todlen hame. 

Leez me on liquor, my todlen dow r , 

Ye're ay sae good humour'd when weeting your raou ; 

When sober sae sour, yell fight wi' a flee, 

That 'tis a blyth sight to the bairns and me, 
When todlen hame, todlen hame, 
When round as a neep ye come todlen hame. 



CAULD KAIL IN ABERDEEN. 

THIS song is by the Duke of Gordon. — The old 
verses are, 

There's cauld kail in Aberdeen, 

And castocks in Strabogie ; 
When ilka lad maun hae his lass, 

Then fye, gie me my cogie. 

* But and ben, is the outer and inner room. In low farm- 
houses of two rooms, the outer room is called the but, and the 
inner one the ben. 



142 

My cogie, Sii*s, my cogie, Sirs, 

I cannot want my cogie : 
I wadna git my three-girr'd stoup 

For a' the queues on Bogie. 

There's Johnie Smith has got a wife 
That scrimps him o' his cogie, 

If she were mine, upon my life 
Pd douk her in a bogie. 
My cogie, Sirs, fyc. 



There's cauld kail in Aberdeen, 
And castocks in Stra'bogie ; 
Gin I but hae a bonny lass, 
Ye're welcome to your cogie : 
And ye may sit up a' the night, 
And drink till it be braid day-light ; 
Gie me a lass baith clean and tight, 
To dance the Reel of Bogie. 
In cotillons the French excel ; 
John Bull loves countra-dances ; 
The Spaniards dance fandangos well ; 
Mynheer an allemande prances : 



I4S 



h\ foursome reels the Scotch delight, 
The threesome maist dance wond'rous light ; 
But twasome's ding a' out o ? sight, 
Danc'd to the Reel of Bogie. 

Come, lads, and view your partners well, 
Wale each a blythsome rogie ; 
I'll tak this lassie to mysel, 
She seems sae keen and vogie ! 
Now piper lad bang up the spring ; 
The countra fashion is the thing, 
To prie their mou's e'er we begin 
To dance the Reel of Bogie. 

Now ilka lad has got a lass, 
Save yon auld doited fogie ; 
And ta'en a fling upo' the grass, 
As they do in Stra'bogie : 
But a' the lasses look sae fain, 
We canna think oursel's to hain, 
For they maun hae their come again 
To dance the Reel of Bogie. 

Now a the lads hae done their best, 
Like true men of Stra'bogie; 
We'll stop awhile and tak a rest, 
And tipple out a cogie : 



144 



Come now, my lads, and tak your glass. 
And try ilk other to surpass, 
In wishing health to every lass 
To dance the Reel of Bogie. 



FOR LAKE OF GOLD. 

The country girls in Ayrshire, instead of the 

line 

She me forsook for a great duke, 
say, 

For Athole's duke she me forsook ; 

which I take to be the original reading. 

These words were composed by the late Dr. Austin, 
physician at Edinburgh. — He had courted a lady* 
to whom he was shortly to have been married: but 
the Duke of Athole having seen her, became so much 
in love with her, that he made proposals of mar- 
riage, which were accepted of, and she jilted the 
Doctor. 

* Jean, daughter of John Drummond, of Megginch, Esq. 



145 



WE RAN AND THEY RAN.* 

THE author of We ran and they ran, and they 
ran and we ran, #c. was the late Rev. Murdoch 
M'Lennan, minister at Crathie, Dee-side, 

There's some say that we wan, 

Some say that they wan, 
Some say that nane wan at a' man ; 

But one thing I'm sure, 

That at Sheriff Muirf 
A battle there was, which I saw man : 

And we ran and they ran, and they ran, and 
we ran, and we ran, and they ran, awd, man. 



* This copy is given from Ritson's Coll. with his Historical 
Notices. — Ed. 

t The battle of Dumblain or Sheriff-muir was fought the 13th 
of November 1715, between the earl of Mar, for the Chevalier, 
and the duke of Argyle for the government. Both sides claimed 
the victory, the left wing of either army being routed. The 
capture of Preston, it is very remarkable, happened on the same 
day. 

VOL. I. L . 



146 

Brave Argyle # and Belhaven,*f- 

Not like frighted Leven,J 
Which Rothes§ and Haddington|| sa' man ; 

For they all with Wightman # * 

Advanced on the right, man, 
While others took flight, being ra\ man. 
And zve ran, and they ran, #c. 

Lord Roxburgh^ f was there, 

In order to share 
With Douglas,^ who stood not in awe, man, 

Volunteerly to ramble 

With lord Loudon Campbell,§§ 
Brave Ilayf||| did suffer for a' man. 
And zve ran, and they ran, fyc. 

* John (Campbell) 2d duke of Argyle, commander in chief of 
the government forces ; a nobleman of great talents and inte- 
grity, much respected by all parties : died 1743. 

t John (Hamilton) lord Belhaven; served as a volunteer; and 
had the command of a troop of horse raised by the county of 
Haddington: perished at sea, 1721. 

t David (Lesly) earl of Leven ; for the government. 

$ John (Lesly) earl of Rothes; for the government. 

|| Thomas (Hamilton) earl of Haddington ; for the government. 

** Major general Joseph Wightman. 

tt John (Ker) first duke of Roxburgh; for the government. 

+t Archibald (Douglas) duke of Douglas. 

f§ Hugh (Campbell) earl of Loudon. 

Ijll Archibald earl of Hay, brother to the duke of Argyle. He 
was dangerously wounded. 



147 

Sir John Schaw,* that great knight, 

Wi' broad-sword most bright, 
On horseback he briskly did charge, man ; 

An hero that's bold, 

None could him with-hold, 
He stoutly encountered the targemen. 
And we ran, and they ran } fyc. 

For the cowardly Whittam,f 

For feat they should cut him, 
Seeing glittering broad-swords wi' a pa', man, 

And that in such thrang, 

Made Baird edicang,^ 
And from the brave clans ran awa', man. 
And zee ran, and they ran, S$c. 

Brave Mar§ and Panmure|| 
Were firm I am sure, 
The latter was kidnapt awa', man. 
With brisk men about, 

* An officer in the troop of* gentlemen volunteers. 

t Major-general Thomas Whitham. 

$ i. e. Aid du camp, 

§ John (Erskine) earl of Mar, commander in chief of the Che- 
valier's army ; a nobleman of great spirit, honour, and abilities. 
He died at Aix-la-Chapelle in 1732. 

H James (Maule) earl of Panmure; died at Paris, 1723. 

L 2 



148 

Brave Harry* retook 
His brother, and laught at them a', man. 
And we ran, and they ran, #c. 

Grave Marshallf and Iithgow^ 

And Glengary's§ pith too, 
Assisted by brave Loggie-man ; || 

And Gordons the bright 

So boldly did fight, 
The redcoats took flight and awa' man. 
And we ran, and they ran, fyc. 

* Honorable Harry Maule, brother to the earl. The circum- 
stance here alluded to is thus related in the earl of Mar's printed 
account of the engagement : u The prisoners taken by us were 
very civilly used, and none of them stript. Some were allow'd 
to return to Sterling upon their parole, &c. . . The few prison- 
ers taken by the enemy on our Left were most of them stript 
and wounded after taken. The earl of Panmure being first of 
the prisoners wounded after taken. They having refused his 
parole, he was left in a village, and by the hasty retreat of the 
enemy, upon the approach of our army, was rescu'd by his bro- 
ther and his servants." 

t George (Keith) earl Marischall, then a youth at college. He 
died at his government of Neufchatel in 1771. His brother, the 
celebrated marshall Keith, was with him in this battle. 

% James (Livingston) earl of Calendar and Linlithgow: at- 
tainted. 

§ Alexander McDonald of Glengary, laird of a clan; a brave 
and spirited chief: attainted. 

j| Thomas Drummond of Logie-Almond ; commanded the two 
battalions of Drummonds. He was wounded. 



149 

Strathmore # and Clanronaldf 

Cry'd still, advance, Donald! 
Till both these heroes did fa', man ;J 

For there was such hashing, 

And broad swords a clashing, 
Brave Forfar§ himself got a cla', man. 
And we ran, and they ran, fyc. 

* John (Lyon) earl of Strathmore ; " a man of good parts, of 
a most amiable disposition and character.'' 

f Ranald M'Donald, captain of Clan Ranald. N.B. The 
captain of a clan was one who, being next or near in blood to 
the chief, headed them in his infancy or absence. 

$ " We have lost to our regret, the earl of Strathmore and the 
captain of Clan Ranald." Earl of Mar's Letter to the governor 
of Perth. Again, printed account : " We cann't find above 60 
of our men in all kill'd, among whom were the earl of Strathmore 
[and] the captain of Clan Ranald, both much lamented." The 
latter, " for his good parts and gentle accomplishments, was 
look'd upon as the most gallant and generous young gentleman 
among the clans. . . He was lamented by both parties that knew 
him." 

His servant, who lay on the field watching his dead body, being 
asked next day who that was, answered, He was a man yester- 
day. — Bos well's Journey to the Hebrides, p. 359. 

§ Archibald (Douglas) earl of Forfar, who commanded a regi- 
ment in the duke's army. He is said to have been shot in the 
knee, and to have had 10 or 12 cuts in his head from the broad- 
swords. He died a few days after of his wounds. 



150 

Lord Perth* stood the storm, 

Seaforth-f but lukewarm, 
Kilsyth J and Strathallan^ not sla', man ; 

And Hamilton|| pled 

The men were not bred, 
For he had no fancy to fa' man. 

And we ran, and they ran, fyt. 

Brave generous Southesk, ## 
Tilebairnf \ was brisk, 
Whose father indeed would not dra', man, 



* James marquis of Drummond, sou of James (Drummond) 
duke of Perth, was lieutenant general of horse, and "behaved 
with great gallantry." He was attainted, but escaped to France, 
where he soon after died. 

t William (Mackenzie) earl of Seaforth. He was attainted, 
and died in 1740. 

% William (Livingston) viscount Kilsyth : attainted, 

§ William (Drummond) viscount Strathallan ; whose sense of 
loyalty could scarcely equal the spirit and activity he manifested 
in the cause. He was taken prisoner in this battle, which he 
survived to perish in the still more fatal one of Culloden-muir. 

|| Lieutenant-general George Hamilton, commanding under 
the earl of Mar. 

** James (Carnegie) earl of Southesk ; was attainted, and, 
escaping to France, died there in 1729. 

tt William (Murray) marquis of Tullibardin, eldest son to the 
duke of Athol. Having been attainted, he was taken at sea ii% 
1746, and died soon after, of a flux, in the Tower, 



151 

Into the same yoke, 
Which serv'd for a cloak, 
To keep the estate ? twixt them twa, man. 

And we ran, and they ran, fyc. 

Lord Rollo # not fear'd, 

Kintoref and his beard, 
PitsligoJ and Ogilvie§ a', man, 

And brothers Balfours,|| 

They stood the first show'rs, 
Clackmannan and Burleigh ## did cla', man. 

And we ran, and they ran, fyc. 



* Robert (Rollo) lord Rollo ; a a man of singular merit and 
great integrity ; M died in 1758. 
t William (Keith) earl of Kintore. 

X Alexander (Forbes) lord Pitsligo; a man of good parts, 
great honour and spirit, and universally beloved and esteemed." 
He was engaged again in the affair of 1745, for which he was at- 
tainted, and died at an advanced age in 1762. 

§ James lord Ogilvie, eldest son of David (Ogilvie) earl of 
Airly. He was attainted, but afterwards pardoned. His father, 
not dra'ing into the same yoke, saved the estate. 

jl Some relations it is supposed of the lord Burleigh. 

** Robert (Balfour) lord Burleigh. He was attainted, and 
died in 1757. 



152 

But Cleppan # acted pretty, 

And Strowan the witty ,*j- 
A poet that pleases us a', man ; 

For mine is but rhime, 

In respect of what's fine, 
Or what he is able to dra', man. 

And we ran, and they ran, fyc. 

For Huntlyt and Sinclair,§ 

They both play'd the tinclair, 
With consciences black like a era', man. 

Some Angus and Fifemen 

They ran for their life, man, 
And ne'er a Lot's wife there at a', man. 
And we ran, and they ran, fyc. 

* Major William Clephane, adjutant-general to the marquis 
of Drummond. 

f Alexander Robertson of Struan ; who, having experienced 
every vicissitude of life, with a stoical firmness, died in peace 
1749. He was an excellent poet, and has left elegies worthy of 
Tibullus. 

1 Alexander (Gordon) marquis of Huntley, eldest son to the 
duke of Gordon, who, according to the usual policy of his coun- 
try, (of which we here meet with several other instances), re- 
mained neutral. 

§ John Sinclair, esq. commonly called master of Sinclair, eldest 
son of Henry lord Sinclair; was attainted, but afterward par- 
doned, and died in 1750; The estate was preserved of 
course. 



153 

Then Laurie the traytor. 

Who betray 'd his master, 
His king and his countrie and a', man, 

Pretending Mar might 

Give order to fight, 
To the right of the army awa', man.* 

And we ran, and they ran, fyc. 

* a There was at this time a report prevail'd that one Drum- 
mond went to Perth under the notion of a deserter from the duke 
Argyle, but in reality acted the part of a spy a and gave his 
grace intelligence of all the motions of the enemy. This man 
was employed the day of the action, as aid de camp to the lord 
Drummond, and in that quality attended the earl of Mar to re- 
ceive his orders ; the earl, when he found his right was like to 
break the duke's left, sent this Drummond with orders to gene- 
ral Hammilton, who commanded on the rebels' left, to attack 
the enemy briskly, for that he was like to get the better on the 
right. But Drummond, as they pretend, gave contrary orders, 
and intelligence to general Hammilton, acquainting him that the 
earl's right was broke, and desiring the general to retire with all 
the expedition possible, and in the best order he could. Upon 
which general Hammilton gave orders to slacken the attack, 
which was obey'd. Then the duke's right approaching, the most 
of them gave way without striking a stroke, and those who 
stood were mostly gentlemen and officers, who were severely 
galVd by the duke ; and they pretend that Drummond, after 
performing this treacherous part, went over to the duke." 

Campbell's Life of John Duke of Argyle, p. 204. 



1,54 

Then Laurie, for fear 

Of what he might hear, 
Took Drummond's best horse and awa', man, 

Instead o' going to Perth, 

He crossed the Firth, 
Alongst Stirling-bridge and awa', man. 
And we ran, mid they ran, fyc. 

To London he press'd, 

And there he address'd, 
That he behav'd best o' them a', man ; 

And there without strife 

Got settled for life, 
An hundred a year to his fa', man. 
And we ran, and they ran, fyc. 

In Burrowstounness 

He resides wi' disgrace, 
Till his neck stand in need of a dra', man, 

And then in a tether 

Hell swing frae a ladder, 
[And] go aff the stage with a pa', man. 
And we ran, and they ran, fyc. 

Rob Roy* stood watch 
On a hill for to catch 

* " Among other causes of the rebels' misfortune in that day, 
they reckon the part Rob Roy, M. Gregor, acted to be one; this 

Rob 



155 

The booty for ought that I sa', man, 

For he ne'er advanc'd 

From the place he was stanc'd, 
Till nae mair to do there at a', man. 
And we ran, and they ran, fyc. 

Rob Roy, or [Red] Robert, was brother to the laird of M. Gregor, 
and commanded that clan in his brother's absence, but in the 
day of battle he kept his men together at some distance without 
allowing them to engage, tho' they show'd all the willingness 
immaginable, and waited only an opportunity to plunder, which 
was, it seems, the chief of his design of coming there. This clan 
are a hardy rough people, but noted for pilfering, as they lye 
upon the border of the Highlands, and this Rob Roy had exer- 
cised their talents that way pretty much in a kind of thieving 
war he carried on against the duke of Montrose, who had, as he 
alledged, cheated him of a small feudal estate*" Campbell's Life 
of J. D. of Ar gyle, p. 205. 

The conduct of this gentleman (who, the historian would not 
tell us, had assumed the surname of Campbell, his own being 
prohibited by act of parliament) was the more surprising, as he 
had ever been remarked for courage and activity. When de- 
sired by one of his own officers to go and assist his friends, he is 
reported to have said, u If they cannot do it without me, they 
cannot do it with me." It is more than probable, however, that 
his interference would have decided the fortune of that day in 
favour of his own party. " He continued in arms for some 
years after, and committed great depredations in the shires of 

Dumbarton and Lenox, particularly on the duke of Montrose's 
lands, defeating several detachments sent to reduce him." 
Boyse's History of the Rebellion, He is in the number of those 

attainted by parliament. 



15ti 

So we a' took the flight, 

And Moubray the wright ; 
But Letham the smith was a bra' man, 

For he took the gout, 

Which truly was wit, 
By judging it time to withdra', man. 
And we ran, and they ran, fyc. 

And trumpet M'Lean, 

Whose breeks were not clean, 
Thro* misfortune he happen'd to fa', man, 

By saving his neck 

His trumpet did break, 
Came aff without musick at a', man. # 
And we ran, and they ran, #c. 

* The particulars of this anecdote no where appear. The 
hero is supposed to be the same John M c Lean y trumpet, who was 
sent from lord Mar, then at Perth, with a letter to the duke of 
Argyle, at Stirling camp, on the 30th of October. Vide Original 
Letters , 1730. Two copies, however, printed not long after 
1715, read, " And trumpet Marine" 

In 1782 the son of this Trumpeter Marine told the Earl of 
Haddington (then Lord Binning) that the first circuit he ever 
attended, as one of his Majesty's household trumpeters, was the 
Northern, in the year 1716, along with old Lord Minto. That 
the reason of his going there was, that the circuit immediately 
preceding, his father had been so harassed in every town he 
went through, by the people singing his verse, (i And Trumpet 
Marine, whose breeks" &c. of this song, that he swore he w T ould 
never go again ; and actually resigned his situation in favour of 
his son.— Campbell's Hist, of Poetry in Scotland. 



157 

So there such a race was, 

As ne'er in that place was, 
And as little chase was at a', man ; 

Frae ither they 'run' 

Without touk o' drum ; 
They did not make use of a pa', man. 

And zee ran, and they ran, and they ran, and 
we ran, and we ran, and they ran awa\ man.* 

* This battle has also been celebrated in a sort of dialogue, 
printed in Ritson's Collection of Scotish Songs, between " Will 
Lick-ladle and Tom Clean-cogue, twa Shepherds wha were feed- 
ing their flocks on the Ochil-hills on the day the battle of Sheriff- 
Muir was fought." The mode of narration is well chosen, but 
the poem has little other merit, except as being a circumstantial 
and a sort of gazette account of the affair. 

So fine a subject could not escape the Muse which immor- 
talized the fight of Bannockburn, and in the accompanying 
stanzas we have additional proof of the ardent and inexhaustible 
mind of Burns, which when roused in the cause of Patriotism, 
could invest the rudest materials with the riches of its own 
genius. Most imitations are only foils to the original ; but here, 
the Model is like a tree in the bare poverty of winter, and the 
Copy is the same tree warmed with the life and clothed in the 
verdure of spring. This is one among innumerable instances, in 
which he has displayed the versatility of his powers in new-mo- 
delling the ancient ballads of his country. 

" "Nullum quod tetigit non ornavit," 

Ed. 



158 

ON THE BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MU tit, 
BETWEEN 

The Duke of Argyle and the Earl of Mar. 

" O cam ye here the fight to shun, 
Or herd the sheep wi' me, man ? 

O ware ye at the Sherra-muir, 
And did the battle see, man ?" 
I saw the battle, sair and tough, 
And reekin-red ran mony a sheugh, 
My heart for fear gae sough for sough, 
To hear the thuds, and see the cluds 
O' clans frae woods, in tartan duds, 

Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, man. 

The red-coat lads wi' black cockades 

To meet them were na slaw, man ; 
They rush'd and push'd, and blude outgush'd, 

And mony a bouk # did fa', man : 
The great Argyle led on his files, 
I wat they glanced twenty miles : 
They hack'd and hash'd, while broad-swords clashed, 
And thro' they dash'd, and hew'd and smash'd, 

Till fey men died awa, man. 

* A bouk— a carcass, the body of a man. 



3 5g 

But had you seen the philibegs, 

And skyrin tartan trews, man, 
When in the teeth they dar'd our whigs, 

And covenant true blues, man ; 
In lines extended lang and large, 
When bayonets oppos'd the targe, 
And thousands hasten'd to the charge, 
Wi' Highland wrath they frae the sheath, 
Drew blades o' death, till, out o' breath, 

They fled like frighted doos, man. 

" O how deil Tam can that be true ? 

The chase gaed frae the north, man : 
I saw myself, they did pursue 

The horseman back to Forth, man ; 
And at Dumblane, in my ain sight, 
They took the brig wi' a' their might, 
And straught to Stirling wing'd their flight ; 
But, cursed lot ! the gates were shut, 
And mony a huntit, poor red-coat 

For fear amaist did swarf, man." 

My sister Kate cam up the gate 

Wi' crowdie unto me, man ; 
She swore she saw some rebels run 

Frae Perth unto Dundee, man : 



160 

Their left-hand general had nae skill, 
The Angus lads had nae good will 
That day their neebors' blood to spill ; 
For fear, by foes, that they should lose 
Their cogs o' brose ; all crying woes, 
And so it goes you see, man. 

They've lost some gallant gentlemen, 
Amang the Highland clans, man : 

I fear my lord Panmure is slain, 
Or fallen in whiggish hands, man : 

Now wad ye sing this double fight, 

Some fell for wrang, and some for right ; 

But mony bade the world gude night ; 

Then ye may tell, how pell and mell, 

By red claymores, and muskets' knell, 

Wi' dying yell, the tories fell, 
And whigs to hell did flee, man. 



161 



here's a health to my true love, &c. 

This song is Dr. Blacklock's.—He told me that 
tradition gives the air to our James IV. of Scot- 
land. 



bide ye yet. 



THERE is a beautiful song to this tune, begin* 
ning, 

Alas, my son, you little know — 

which is the composition of a Miss Jenny Graham 
of Dumfries.* 

Alas ! my son, you little know 

The sorrows that from wedlock flow : 

Farewel to every day of ease, 

When you have gotten a wife to please, 

* Miss Graham was a maiden lady; she lived to a pretty 
old age, and at length died a martyr to an asthma of many 
years continuance, the pain of which she alleviated by exer- 
cising her cheerful disposition in composing humourous Scotisii 
songs.— Ed. 

VOL. I. M 



162 

Sae bide you yet, and bide you yet, 
Ye little ken what's to betide you yet ; 
The half of that will gane you yet, 
If a wayivard wife obtain you yet. 

Your experience is but small, 
As yet you've met with little thrall ; 
The black cow on your foot ne'er trod,* 
Which gars you sing alang the road, 
Sae bide you yet, fyc. 

Sometimes the rock, sometimes the reel, 
Or some piece of the spinning-wheel, 
She will drive at you wr* good will, 
And then she'll send you to the de'il. 

Sae bide you yet, fyc. 

When I like you was young and free, 
I valued not the proudest she ; 
Like you I vainly boasted then, 
That men alone were born to reign. 
Sae bide you yet, fye. 

* This is an ancient proverbial expression. It is used by Sir 
John Harrington in his translation of the Orlando Furioso (b. vi. 
s. 72.) where, speaking of some very young damsels, he says, 

Tlie blacke oxe has not yet trod on their toe. 

It is used in Yorkshire to this day, and is generally applied to 
such indiscreet unmarried young men as have not yet sown their 
wild oats. 



163 

Great Hercules and Sampson too, 
Were stronger men than 1 or you ; 
Yet they were baffled by their dears, 
And felt the distaff and the sheers. 
Sae bide you yet, fyc* 

Stout gates of brass, and well-built walls, 
Are proof 'gainst swords and cannon-balls; 
But nought is found by sea or land, 
That can a wayward wife withstando 
Sae bide you yet, fyc* 



BIDE YE YET. 

Gin I had a wee house and a canty wee fire, 
A bonny wee wifie to praise and admire, 
A bonny wee yardie aside a wee burn ; 
Fareweel to the bodies that yammer and mourn. 
Sae bide ye yet, and bide ye yet, 

Ye little ken what may betide ye yet, 
Some bonny wee body may be my lot, 
And I'll be canty wi thinking o't. 

When I gang afield, and come home at e'en, 
I'll get my wee wifie fou neat and fou clean ; 
And a bonny wee bairne upon her knee, 
That will cry, papa, or daddy, to me. 
Sae bide ye yet y fyc. 
M 2 



164 

And if there happen ever to be 
A difference atween my wee wifie and me, 
In hearty good humour, although she be teaz'd, 
I'll kiss her and clap her until she be pleas'd. 
Sae bide ye yet, fyc» 



HEY TUTTI TAITI.* 

J HAVE met the tradition universally over Scot- 
land, and particularly about Stirling, in the neigh- 

* To this melody Burns adapted his celebrated address of 
Bruce at Bannockburn. His feelings on visiting the scene of 
that memorable battle are described in his unpublished journal 
in the Editor's possession, in language almost as sublime and 
energetic as that of his heart-rousing Poem, and they are both 
here inserted, that the reader may judge between the embryo 
and the full-grown offspring of his genius, 

" Bannockburn. Here no Scot can pass uninterested. I 
fancy to myself that I see my gallant, heroic countrymen coming 
o'er the hill, and down upon the plunderers of their country, the 
murderers of their fathers ; noble revenge and just hate glowing 
in every vein, striding more and more eagerly as they approach 
the oppressive, insulting, blood-thirsty foe! I see them meet, 
in gloriously triumphant congratulation, on the victorious field, 
exulting in their heroic royal Leader, and rescued liberty and 
independence !" 

ROBERT 



165 

bourhood of the scene, that this air was Robert 
Bruce's march at the battle of Bannockhurn. 



ROBERT BRUCE S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY. 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led ; 
Welcome to your gory bed, 
Or to glorious victorie. 

Now's the day, and now's the hour ; 
See the front o' battle lour; 
See approach proud Edward's power- — 
Edward! chains and slaverie! 

Wha will be a traitor knave ? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave ? 
Wha sae base as be a slave ? 
Traitor ! coward ! turn and flee ! 

Wha for Scotland's king and law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw ? 
Free-man stand, or free-man fa', 
Caledonian ! on wi' me ! 

By oppression's woes and painsi 
By your sons in servile chains ; 
We will drain our dearest veins, 
But they shall be— shall be free ! 

Lay the proud usurpers low! 
Tyrants fall in every foe; 
Liberty's in every blow t 
Forward! let us do, or die! 



166 



RAVING WINDS AROUND HER BLOWING. 

I COMPOSED these verses on Miss Isabella 
M'Leod of Raza, alluding to her feelings on the 
death of her sister, and the still more melancholy 
death of her sister's husband, the late Earl of 
'Loudon. 

Tune— M'Grigor of Roro's Lament. 

Raving winds around her blowing, 
Yellow leaves the woodlands strowing, 
By a river hoarsely roaring, 
Isabella stray'd deploring. 
Farewel hours, that late did measure 
Sunshine days of joy and pleasure; 
Hail ! thou gloomy night of sorrow, 
Cheerless night that knows no morrow ! 

O'er the Past too fondly wandering, 
On the hopeless Future wandering ; 
Chilly grief my life-blood freezes, 
Fell despair my fancy seizes. 
Life, thou soul of every blessing, 
Load to misery most distressing ; 
Gladly how would I resign thee, 
And to dark oblivion join thee J 



167 



THE BRIDAL O T. 



This song is the work of a Mr. Alexander Ross y 
late schoolmaster at Lochlee;* and author of a 
beautiful Scots poem, called, The Fortunate Shep- 
herdess. 

Tune— Lucy Campbell. 

They say that Jockey'll speed weel o't, 

They say that Jockey'll speed weel o't, 
For he grows brawer ilka day, 

I hope we'll hae a bridal o't : 
For yesternight, nae farder gane, 

The backhouse at the side wa' o't, 
He there wi' Meg was mirden seen, 

I hope we'll hae a bridal o't. 

An we had but a bridal o't, 

An we had but a bridal o't, 
We'd leave the rest unto gude luck, 

Altho' there should betide ill o't : 



* An account of Mr. Ross may be seen in the Appendix to 
this volume, marked (c.) 



168 

For bridal days are merry times, 

And young folks like the coming o't, 

And scribblers they bang up their rhymes, 
And pipers they the bumming o't 

The lasses like a bridal o't, 

The lasses like a bridal o't, 
Their braws maun be in rank and file, 

Altho' that they should guide ill o't : 
The boddom o' the kist is then 

Tum'd up unto the inmost o't, 
The end that held the kecks sae clean, 

Is now become the teemest o't 

The bangster at the threshing o't, 

The bangster at the threshing o't, 
Afore it comes is fidgin fain, 

And ilka day's a clashing o't : 
He'll sell his jerkin for a groat, 

His Under for anither o't, 
And e'er he want to clear his shot, 

His sark'll pay the tither o't 

The pipers and the fiddlers o't, 
The pipers and the fiddlers o't, 

Can smell a bridal unco far, 
And like to be the middlers o't : 



169 

Fan* thick and threefold they convene, 

Ilk ane envies the tither o't, 
And wishes nane but him alane 

May ever see anither o't 

Fan they hae done vri' eating o't, 

Fan they hae done wi' eating o't, 
For dancing they gae to the green, 

And aiblins to the beating o't : 
He dances best that dances fast, 

And loups at ilka reesing o't, 
And claps his hands frae hough to hough, 

And furls about the feezings o't. 

* Fan, when — the vulgar dialect of Angus. 



170 



WHAT AILS THE LASSES AT ME. 

Tune — An the Kirk wad let me be. 

I am a batchelor winsome, 

A farmer by rank and degree, 

An' few I see gang out mair handsome, 

To kirk or to market than me ; 

I have outsight and insight and credit, 

And from any eelist I'm free, 

I'm well enough boarded and bedded, 

And what ails the lasses at me ? 

My boughts of good store are no scanty, 
My byrs are well stocked wi' ky, 
Of meal i' my girnels is plenty, 
An' twa' or three easements forby. 
An' horse to ride out when they're weary, 
An' cock with the best they can see, 
An' then be ca'd dawty and deary, 
I fairly what ails them at me. 

Behind backs, afore fouk I've woo'd them, 
An' a' the gates o't that I ken, 
An' whan they leugh o' me, I trow'd them, 
An' thought I had won, but what then ; 



171 

When I speak of matters they grumble, 
Nor are condescending and free, 
But at my proposals ay stumble, 
I wonder what ails them at me. 

I've try'd them baith highland and lowland, 
Where I a good bargain cud see, 
But nane o' them fand I wad fall in, 
Or say they wad buckle wi' me. 
With jooks an' wi' scraps I've address'd them, 
Been with them baith modest and free, 
But whatever way I caress'd them, 
There's something still ails them at me. 

O, if I kend how but to gain them, 
How fond of the knack wad I be ! 
Or what an address could obtain them, 
It should be twice welcome to me. 
If kissing an' clapping wad please them, 
That trade I should drive till I die ; 
But, however I study to ease them, 
They've still an exception at me. 

There's wratacks, an' cripples, an' cranshaks, 
An' a' the wandoghts that I ken, 
No sooner they speak to the wenches, 
But they are ta'en far enough ben ; 



172 

But when I speak to them that's stately, 
I find them ay ta'en with the gee, 
An' get the denial right flatly ; 
What, think ye, can ail them at me ? 

I have yet but ae offer to make them, 
If they wad but hearken to me, 
And that is, I'm willing to tak them, 
If they their consent wad but gee ; 
Let her that's content write a billet, 
An' get it transmitted to me, 
I hereby engage to fulfil it, 
Tho' cripple, tho' blind she sud be. 



BILLET BY JEAN GRADDEN. 

Dear batchelour, I've read your billet, 
Your strait an' your hardships I see, 
An' tell you it shall be fulfilled, 
Tho' it were by none other but me. 
These forty years I've been neglected, 
An' nene has had pity on me ; 
Such offers should not be rejected, 
Whoever the offerer be. 



173 

For beauty I lay no claim to it, 
Or, may be, I had been away ; 
Tho' tocher or kindred could do it, 
I have no pretensions to they : 
The most I can say, — I'm a woman, 
An' that I a wife want to be ; 
An I'll tak exception at no man, 
That's willing to tak nane at me. 

And now I think I may be cocky, 
Since fortune has smurtl'd on me, 
I'm Jenny, an' ye shall be Jockie, 
'Tis right we together sud be ; 
For nane of us cud find a marrow. 
So sadly forfairn were w r e • 
Fouk sud no at any thing tarrow, 
Whose chance looked naething to be. 

On Tuesday speer for Jeany Gradden, 
When I i' my pens ween to be, 
Just at the sign of the Old Maiden, 
Where ye shall be sure to meet me : 
Bring with you the priest for the wedding, 
That a' things just ended may be, 
An' we'll close the whole with the bedding ; 
An' wha'll be sae merry as we i 



174 

A cripple I'm not, ye forsta me, 

Tho' lame of a hand that I be ; 

Nor blind is there reason to ca' me, 

Altho' I see but with ae eye : 

But Fm just the chap that you wanted, 

So tightly our state doth agree ; 

For nane wad hae you, ye have granted, 

As few I confess wad hae me. 



THE ROCK AND THE WEE PICKLE TOW. 

There was an auld wife an* a wee pickle tow, 

An' she wad gae try the spinning o't, 

She louted her down, an' her rock took a low, 

And that was a bad beginning o't : 

She sat an' she grat, an' she flet and she flang, 

An' she threw an' she blew, an* she wrigl'd an' wrang, 

An 5 she choked, an' boaked, an' cry'd like to mang, 

Alas ! for the dreary spinning o't. 

Fve wanted a sark for these eight years an' ten, 
An 5 this was to be the beginning o't, 
But I vow I shall want it for as lang again, 
Or ever I try the spinning o't ; 



175 

For never since ever they ca'd me as they ca ? me, 
Did sic a mishap an misanter befa' me, 
But ye shall hae leave baith to hang me an' draw me, 
The neist time I try the spinning o't. 

I hae keeped my house for these three score o' years,. 

An' ay I kept free o' the spinning 6% 

But how I was sarked foul fa' them that speers, 

For it minds me upo' the beginning o't. 

But our women are now a days grown sae bra', 

That ilka an maun hae a sark an' some hae twa, 

The warlds were better when ne'er an awa' 

Had a rag but ane at the beginning o't. 

Foul fa her that ever advis'd me to spin, 
That had been so lang a beginning o't, 
I might well have ended as I did begin, 
Nor have got sick a skair with the spinning o't. 
But they'll say, she's a wyse wife that kens her ain weerd, 
I thought on a day, it should never be speer'd, 
How loot ye the low take your rock be the beard, 
When ye yeed to try the spinning o't ? 

The spinning, the spinning it gars my heart sob, 
When I think upo' the beginning o't, 
I thought ere I died to have anes made a web, 
But still I had weers o' the spinning o't. 



17G 

But had I nine dathers, as I hae but three, 

The safest and soundest advice I cud gee, 

Is that they frae spinning wad keep their hands free) 

For fear of a bad beginning o't. 

Yet in spite of my counsel if they will needs rua 

The drearysome risk of the spinning o't, 

Let them seek out a lythe in the heat of the sun, 

And there venture o' the beginning o't : 

But to do as I did, alas, and awow ! 

To busk up a rock at the cheek of the low, 

Says, that I had but little wit in my pow, 

And as little ado with the spinning o't. 

But yet after a', there is ae thing that grieves 
My heart to think o' the beginning o't, 
Had I won the length but of ae pair o' sleeves, 
Then there had been word o' the spinning o't ; 
This I wad ha washen an' bleech'd like the snaw, 
And o' my twa gardies like moggans wad draw, 
An' then fouk wad say, that auld Girzy was bra', 
An' a' was upon her ain spinning o't. 

But gin I wad shog about till a new spring, 
I should yet hae a bout of the spinning o't, 
A mutchkin of linseed I'd i' the yerd fling, 
For a' the wan chansie beginning o't. 



177 

I'll gar my ain Tammie gae down to the how. 
An' cut me a rock of a widdershines grow, 
Of good rantry-tree for to carry my tow, 
An* a spindle of the same for the twining o't. 

For now when I mind me, I met Maggy Grim, 

This morning just at the beginning o't, 

She was never ca'd chancy, but canny an' slim, 

An' sae it has fair'd of my spinning o't : 

But an' my new rock were anes cutted an' dry, 

I'll a' Maggie's can an' her cantraps defy, 

An' but onie sussie the spinning I'll try, 

An' ye's a' hear o' the beginning o't. 

Quo' Tibby, her dather, tak tent fat ye say, 
The never a ragg we'll be seeking o't, 
Gin ye anes begin, ye'll tarveal's night an' day, 
Sae it's vain ony mair to be speaking o't 
Since lambas I'm now gaing thirty an' twa, 
An' never a dud sark had I yet gryt or sma', 
An' what war am I ? I'm as warm an' as bra', 
As thrummy tail'd Meg that's a spinner o't. 

To labor the lint-land, an' then buy the seed, 
An then to yoke me to the harrowing o't, 
An' syn loll amon't an' pike out ilka weed, 
Like swine in a sty at the farrowing o't ; 

VOL. I. N 



178 

Syn powing and ripling an' steeping, an' then 
To gar's gae an spread it upo' the cauld plain, 
An' then after a' may be labor in vain, 
When the wind and the weet gets the fusion o't. 

But tho' it should anter the weather to byde, 
Wi' beetles we're set to the drubbing o't, 
An' then frae our fingers to gnidge aff the hide, 
With the wearisome wark o' the rubbing o't. 
An' syn ilka tait maun be heckl'd out throw, 
The lint putten ae gate, anither the tow, 
Syn on on a rock wi't, an' it taks a low, 
The back o' my hand to the spinning o't. 

Quo' Jenny, I think 'oman ye're i' the right, 

Set your feet ay a spar to the spinning o't, 

We may tak our advice frae our ain mither's fright 

That she gat when she try'd the beginning o't. 

But they'll say that atild fouk are twice bairns indeed, 

An' sae she has kythed it, but there's nae need 

To sickan an amshack that we drive our head, 

As langs we're sae skair'd fra the spinning o't. 

Quo' Nanny the youngest, I've now heard you a', 
An' dowie's your doom o' the spinning o't, 
Gin ye, fan the cow flings, the cog cast awa', 
Ye may see where ye'll lick up your winning o't. 



179 

But I see that but* spinning I'll never be bra*, 
But gae by the name of a dilp or a da, 
Sae lack where ye like I shall anes shak a fa', 
Afore I be dung with the spinning o't. 

For well I can mind me when black Willie Bell 
Had Tibbie there just at the winning o% 
What blew up the bargain, she kens w 7 ell hersell, 
Was the want of the knack of the spinning o't. 
An' now, poor 'oman, for ought that I ken, 
She may never get sic an offer again, 
But pine away bit an bit, like Jenkin's hen, 
An' naething to wyte but the spinning o't. 

But were it for naething, but just this alane, 

I shall yet hae about o' the spinning o't, 

They may cast me for ca'ing me black at the bean, 

But nae cause I shun'd the beginning o't. 

But, be that as it happens, I care not a strae, 

But nane of the lads shall hae it to say, 

When they come till w t oo, she kens naething avae, 

Nor has onie ken o' the spinning o't. 

In the days they ca'd yore, gin auld fouks had but won, 
To a surkoat hough side for the winning o't, 
Of coat raips well cut by the cast o' their bun, 
They never sought mair o' the spinning o't, 
* But— without. 
N £ 



J 80 

A pair of grey hoggers well clinked benew, 

Of nae other lit but the hue of the ew, 

With a pair of rough rullions to scuff thro' the dew, 

Was the fee they sought at the beginning o't. 

But we maun hae linen, an' that maun hae we, 
An how get we that, but the spinning o't ? 
How can we hae face for to seek a gryt fee, 
Except we can help at the winning o't ? 
An' we maun hae pearlins and mabbies an cocks, 
An' some other thing that the ladies ca' smoks, 
Ah' how get we that, gin we tak na our rocks, 
And pow what we can at the spinning o't r 

'Tis needless for us for to tak our remarks 
Frae our mither's miscooking the spinning o't, 
She never kend ought o' the gueed of the sarks, 
Frae this aback to the beginning o't. 
Twa three ell of plaiden was a' that was sought 
By our auld warld bodies, an' that boot be bought, 
For in ilka town sickan things was nae wrought, 
So little they kend o 5 the spinning o't. 



181 



TUNE YOUR FIDDLES. 



THIS song was composed by the Rev. John Skin- 
ner, 'Non-juring Clergyman at Linshart, near 
Peterhead. He is likewise the author of " Tul- 
lochgorum," " Ewie wi' the Crookit horn/' " John 
o' Badenyond," fyc; and what is of still more con- 
sequence, he is one of the worthiest of mankind. 
He is the Author of an " Ecclesiastical History of 
Scotland/' The air is by Mr. Marshall, butler to 
the Duke of Gordon ; the first composer of strath- 
speys of the age. I have been told by somebody 
who had it of Marshall himself, that he took the 
idea of his three most celebrated pieces, " The Mar- 
quis of Huntly's Reel/' his u Farewel," and " Miss 
Admiral Gordon's Reel/' from the old air, ' The 
German Lairdie.' 

Tune your fiddles, tune them sweetly, 
Play the Marquis' reel discreetly, 
Here we are, a band completely 

Fitted to be jolly. — 
Come, my boys, blythe and gawcie, 
Every youngster chuse his lassie, 
Dance wi' life, and be not saucy, 
Shy nor melancholy. 
Come, my boys, fyc. 



182 

Lay aside your sour grimaces, 
Clouded brows, and drumly faces, 
Look about, and see their Graces, 

How they smile delighted ; 
Now's the season to be merry, 
Hang the thoughts of Charon's ferry, 
Time enough to turn camsterry 

When we're auld and doited. 
Nozv's the season, fyc. 

Butler, put about the claret, 
Thro' us a' divide and share it, 
Gordon-Castle well can spare it, 

It has claret plenty : 
Wine's the true inspiring liquor, 
Draffy drink may please the Vicar, 
When he grasps the foaming bicker, 

Vicars are not dainty. 
Wine's the true inspiring liquor, fyc 

We'll extol our noble master, 
Sprung from many a brave ancestor,— 
Heaven preserve him from disaster, 
So we pray in duty. 
Prosper, too, our pretty Duchess, 
Safe from all distressful touches, 



183 

Keep her out of Pluto's clutches, 

Long in health and beauty. 
Prosper, too, our pretty Duchess, &;c. 

Angels guard their gallant boy, 
Make him long his father's joy, 
Sturdy, like the heir of Troy, 

Stout and brisk and healthy* 
Pallas, grant him every blessing, 
Wit and strength and size increasing, 
Plutus, what's in thy possessing, 

Make him rich and wealthy, 
Pallas, grant him every blessing, fyc. 

Youth, solace him with thy pleasure, 
In refin'd and worthy measure ; 
Merit, gain him choicest treasure, 

From the Royal donor: 
Famous may he be in story, 
Full of days, and full of glory ; 
To the grave, when old and hoary, 

May he go with honour ! 
Famous may he be in story, fyc. 

GordQiis, join our hearty praises, 
Jlonest, though in homely phrases^ 



184 

Love our cheerful spirits raises, 

Lofty as the lark is : 
Echo, waft our wishes daily, 
Thro' the grove, and thro' the alley, 
Sound o'er every hill and valley, 

Blessings on our Marquis. 
Echo, waft our wishes, #c. 



THE RANTING DOG THE DADDIE OT. 
Tune — East nook o' Fife. 

J COMPOSED this song pretty early in life, and 
sent it to a young girl, a very particular acquaint- 
ance of mine, who was at that time under a cloud. 

O wha my babie-clouts will buy ? 
Wha will tent me when I cry ? 
Wha will kiss me whare I lie ? 
The rantin dog the daddie o't. 

Wha will own he did the faut ? 
Wha will buy my groanin-maut ? 
Wha will tell me how to ca't ? 
The rantin dog the daddie o't. 



185 

When I mount the creepie-chair,* 
Wha will sit beside me there ? 
Gie me Rob, I seek nae mair, 
The rantin dog the daddie o't. 

Wha will crack to me my lane ? 
Wha will mak me fidgin fain ? 
Wha will kiss me o'er again ? 
The rantin dog the daddie o't 



HOOLY AND FAIRLY. 



It is remark-worthy that the song of Hooly and 
Fairly, in all the old editions of it, is called The 
Drunken Wife o' Galloway, which localizes it to 
that country. 



THE DRUNKEN WIFE o' GALLOWAY. 



Oh ! what had I to do for to marry ? 

My wife she drinks naething but sack and Canary, 

I to her friends complain'd right early, 

* Creepie-chair— the stool of repentance. 



186 



O gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly, 

Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly, 
O gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly. 

First she drank crummie, and syne she drank garie ; 
Now she has druken my bonny grey marie, 
That carried me thro' a' the dubs and the larie. 
O! gin, fyc. 

She has druken her stockins, sa has she her shoon, 
And she has druken her bonny new gown ; 
Her wee bit dud sark that co'erd her fu' rarely, 
O! gin, fyc. 

If she'd drink but her ain things I wad na much care, 
But she drinks my claiths I canna weel spare, 
When I'm wi' my gossips, it angers me sairly, 
O! gin, fyc. 

My Sunday's coat she's laid it a wad, # 
The best blue bonnet e'er was on my head ; 
At kirk and at market I'm cover'd but barely, 
0/ gin, fyc. 

The verra gray mittens that gaed on my han's, 
To her neebor wife she has laid them in pawns ; 
My bane-headed staff that I lo'ed sae dearly, 
O! gin, fye. 

* Laid it' a wad — laid it in pawn, 



187 

If there's ony siller, she maun keep the purse ; 
[f I seek but a baubee she'll scauld and she'll curse, 
She gangs like a queen — I scrimped and sparely, 
O! gin, fyc. 

I never v/as given to wrangling nor strife, 
Nor e'er did refuse her the comforts of life ; 
Ere it come to a war I'm ay for a parley. 
O! gin, <5fc. 

A pint wi' her cummers I wad her allow, 
But when she sits down she fills herself fou ; 
And when she is fou she's unco camstarie, 
O! gin, fyc. 

When she comes to the street she roars and she rants, 
Has nae fear o' her neebors, nor minds the house 

wants ; 
She rants up some fool-sang, like " Up yer heart, 

Charlie." 
O! gin, fyc. 

And when she comes hame she lays on the lads, 
She ca's the lasses baith limmers and jads, 
And I, my ain sell, an auld cuckold carlie, 

O! gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly, 
Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly, 

O ! gin my wife wad drink, hooly and fairly. 



189 

APPENDIX 

TO VOL. I. 

APPENDIX (a.) 



AN Account of Jean Adam, Authoress of the 
Ballad " There's nae luck about the House/' 
referred to in page 68. 

This song, the production of Jean Adam, who 
taught a day-school at Crawford's- dyke, in the neigh- 
bourhood of Greenock, has been deemed not un- 
worthy the pen of the Translator of the Lusiad. 
A copy of it, in his own hand-writing, was found 
among his MS. after his decease, and appeared in 
the last edition of his works, among some original 
pieces never before published. As it has been an 
uniform principle in making the present Collection 
to establish the authenticity of each particular poem, 
the Editor of Mr. Mickle's w r orks was consulted re- 
specting the grounds of his claim to the song in 



190 

question. In his answer he states, that never having 
had any conversation with Mr. Mickle on this ballad, 
he applied to his relict, who perfectly remembers re- 
ceiving a copy of it from Mr. Mickle, but is not 
positive that he affirmed it to be his production, 
though, on being questioned, she thinks he did not 
absolutely deny it. He adds, that her powers of 
recollection having been impaired by a paralysis, she 
cannot speak decidedly of a conversation which took 
place so many years ago. In Mr. Mickle's copy two 
fine stanzas are omitted, which, on the authority of 
the Rev. Patrick Davidson, of Rayne, in the county 
of Aberdeen, are ascribed to Dr. Beattie, who af- 
firms that they were inserted by the Doctor soon 
after the first appearance of the piece. # 

* The following are the lines attributed to Dr. Beattie : 

" The cauld blasts of the winter wind, 
That thrilled thro' my heart, 
They're a' blawn by ; I hae him safe, 
Till death we'll never part ; 
But what puts parting in my head ? 
It may be far awa; 
The present moment is our ain, 
The neist we never saw !" 

Without controverting the Doctor's claim to these eight dis- 
puted lines, the Editor cannot help remarking, that the two 
best, 

" The 



191 

In opposition to these claims, there is living evn 
dence in support of that of Jean Adam. Mrs. Ful- 
larton, who was a pupil of her's, frequently heard 
her repeat it, and affirm it to be her composition, 
and no one at that time disputed her assertion. In 
addition to this, we may adduce the following extract 
of a letter from Mrs. Crawford (Mrs. Fullarton's 
daughter) in reply to an inquiry from Mrs. Fletcher, 
of Edinburgh, at the request of the Editor. 

" Ratho House, Jan. 24, 1810. 

" You may assure Mr. Cromek that the ballad, 

< There's nae luck about the House/ was written by 

Jean Adam, on a couple in Crawford's-dyke, the 

small town where her father lived. I do not recollect 



" The present moment is our ain, 
The neist we never saw !" 

are ntt only quoted by Burns, but that the sentiment itself be- 
longs originally to Horace, and is given nearly in the same 
words as in this ballad, in Ramsay's celebrated imitation of his 
Ode IX. lib. 1. 

" Let neist day come as it thinks fit, 
The present minute's only oufs ; 
On pleasure let's employ our wit, 
And laugh at fortune's fickle powers." 
A sentiment which Horace variously and frequently expresses, 
and which, in fact, forms the basis of his Epicurean philo* 
flophy. 



192 

that I ever heard her repeat it ; but since I can re- 
member any thing, I have always heard it spoken of 
as being her composition, by those that she de- 
pended much upon. — My aunt, Mrs. Crawford, of 
Cartsburn, often sung it as a song of Jean Adams's/' 

The priority of her claim is therefore evident, for 
the song was published before Mr. Mickle was 
known as an author, and she repeatedly declared it 
to be her's at a time when he was living to disprove 
her title to it. Besides, the song bears abundant 
marks of being the production of a female, both in 
its subject and its style. And we may also observe, 
that the poems of Mr. Mickle being all of a classical 
and refined stamp, it is highly improbable that he 
should descend in this single instance into the fami- 
liarity of the Scotish dialect, and the rustic expres- 
sion of domestic feelings. The circumstance of a 
copy being found in his own hand-writing, is not of 
itself sufficient to prove him the author. His admi- 
ration of this happy effusion of untutored genius 
might induce him to copy and to preserve it ; # but 
if he had himself possessed a talent for this style of 
poetry, he would unquestionably have exercised it 
more frequently, and have left other specimens of it. 

* Among the MS. of Burns, now in the Editor's possession, 
are copies of many poems besides his own, which he transcribed 
from a feeling of their excellence. 



193 

The inquiry which this disputed song occasioned, 
has furnished the Editor with some notices of the 
life of Jean Adams, which are characteristic and in- 
teresting. She was born of humble parents, and 
was brought up in a state of penury and wretched- 
ness. Her education was therefore scanty, but it 
may be presumed that her natural talents supplied 
the deficiency, as she supported herself by keeping a 
little school, and at times by assisting at needle-work 
in gentlemens' families. Her poetic genius was first 
awakened by the perusal of a large old folio of ro- 
mances and rhymes, and she shortly afterwards pro- 
duced an "Address to Grief/' which was much 
praised by her friends, and encouraged her to culti- 
vate her acquaintance with the Muses, greatly to the 
neglect of her humbler and more substantial occupa- 
tions. She gave up her school, and led a precarious 
and unsettled life for some time. Her Poems, which 
were scattered among her friends in various parts of 
the country, were collected by a Mr. Drummond, of 
Greenock, and published for her, in one volume, by 
subscription, at Glasgow, in 1734. Their success 
highly flattered Jean's vanity, and she exported a 
large bale of them to Boston, which, however, 
remained unsold, and she was reduced to a state of 
bare poverty, subsisting chiefly on the bounty of her 
friends. 

vol. i. o 



194 

During the time she kept a school at Crawfords- 
dyke, she exhibited some singular traits of enthu- 
siasm. She told her pupils, that having lately read 
Clarissa Harlowe, she felt such a deep interest in it, 
and such sentiments of reverence for its author, that 
she had determined to walk to London to pay her 
personal respects to Mr. Richardson. This singular 
and romantic journey she actually performed in about 
six weeks, and returned to teach her school at Craw- 
fordsdyke. 

One day she told her pupils she would read to 
them a play of Shakespeare's. She fixed upon 
Othello, which Mrs. Crawford remembers she read 
with uncommon pathos, and was so affected at the 
close of that powerful drama, that she (Jean Adam) 
actually fainted away, and remained for some time 
insensible. She treated her pupils with great ten- 
derness, and was much beloved by all of them, and 
was esteemed by all who knew her as a woman of 
singular piety. 

Of the close of her unfortunate life few particu- 
lars are known. There is great reason to conclude 
that it was chequered by all the varieties of disap- 
pointment and distress, for the above anecdote 
clearly shews how prone she was to obey the im- 
pulses of that random enthusiasm which is ever at 
variance with the dictates of prudence, and which is 
too often the bane of the votaries of genius. 



195 

Some time after the year 1760 she came to the 
house of Mrs. Fullarton, formerly her pupil, in a 
state of beggary ; and though at first she rejected 
with pride some articles of dress that were offered 
her, yet she afterwards returned and accepted of 
them. 

The following communication to the Editor by 
Mr. Francis Ross, Clerk to the Town's Hospital at 
Glasgow, is all which could be collected of her hap- 
less and deplorable fate. 

(Extract from the records of the Parish Work- 
house of Glasgow.) 

Glasgow, Town's Hospital, 2d April, 1765. 
" Admit Jean Adam, a poor woman, a stranger in 
distress : — for some time has been wandering about ; 
she came from Greenock, recommended by Baillies 
Gray and Millar/' 

" Glasgow, Town's Hospital, 9th April, 1765. 
" Jean Adam, the stranger, admitted on Tuesday 
the 2d current, died on the following day, and buried 
at the house expence." 



As the Editor, in claiming the ballad " There's 
nae luck about the house," as the property of Jean 
Adam, had nothing in view but truth, he hastens to 
o 2 



196 

lay the following letter before the readers of these 
volumes, written by the Rev. John Sim, A.B. editor 
of Mr. Mickle's works and his intimate friend, and 
received since the above account was printed. 

The contents of Mr. Sim's letter, and the poetical 
sketch it encloses, warrant the Editor in conceding 
the ballad to Mr. Mickle. 

Pentonville, April 14, 1810; 
Dear Sir, 

Since I received Mr. Mudford's letter (a copy of 
which you will see in the Universal Magazine for this 
month, p. 265), I have been so very fortunate as to 
discover among Mr. Mickle's MSS. what I have every 
reason to believe, from its inaccuracy, and other evi- 
dent marks of haste, to be the very first sketch of the 
ballad, " There's nae luck about the house," a copy of 
which I have inclosed. Besides the marks of haste, 
which I have noticed in the margin, you will find Colin 
spelt once with two, and twice with a single /; the 
verb mun (must) spelt with a u and an a, at the dis- 
tance of only two lines : and the word make spelt twice 
with, and thrice without, the letter e. One stanza con- 
tains twelve, two stanzas eight, and the others only 
four lines a-piece ; by which he seems undetermined 
whether the first four or the last four lines should form 
the chorus. Other inaccuracies and blunders you will 
perceive on comparing the MS. with the printed copy 
in my edition of Mickle's Poetry. 



197 



Since I wrote to Mr. Mudford, Mrs. Mickle has in- 
formed me, without being asked, that she now perfectly 
recollects that Mr. Mickle gave her the ballad as his 
own composition, and explained to her the Scottish 
words and phrases ; and she repeated to me, with a very 
little assistance,, the whole of the song, except the eight 
lines, which I have, and I think with justice, ascribed 
to Dr. Beattie. When I asked her why she hesitated 
at first ? she said, that the question coming unexpect- 
edly upon her, flurried her, and the flurry, together 
with the fear that she might be called upon to substan- 
tiate what she then said upon oath, made her answer 
with diffidence and hesitation. This struck me at that 
time to have been the case ; and I believe such a be- 
haviour to be very natural to persons labouring under 
a disorder so depressive as a paralysis. 

I shall only add, that Mickle had too high an opinion 
of his own poetical powers to have adopted the compo- 
sitions of but very few of his contemporaries ; and cer- 
tainly too much honour and integrity, to give the least 
occasion to the publishing of the works of another as 
his own productions. 

I remain, dear Sir, your most obedient 
very humble servant, 

J. Sim. 

To Mr. Cromek. 



The first sketch of the beautiful ballad, " There's 
nae luck about the house," from the hand-writing of 



198 

W.J. Mickle, in the possession of the Rev. Mr. 
Sim. 

There's nae luck about the house 

There's nae luck at aw 
There's little pleasure in the house 

When our gudeman's awa 
And are you sure the news is true 

And do you say he's weel 
Is this a time to speak of wark 

Ye jades lay by your wheel 
Is this a time to spin a thread 

When Collin's at the door 
Reach me my cloak I'll to the quay 

And see him come ashore 

And gie to me my bigonet 

My Bishop's sattin gown 
For I mun tell the Bailie's* wife 

That Colin's in the town 
My Turky slippers man gae on 

My stockings pearly blue 
'Tis aw to pleasure my gudeman 

For he's baith leel and true 

Rise Lass and make a clean fire-side 

Put on the Mucklet pot 
Gie little Kate her button gown 

And JockJ: his Sunday Coat 
And make their shoon as black as slaes 

Their hose as white as snaw 
'Tis a to pleasure my gude Man§ 

For he's been lang awa 

There's twa fat hens upo the Coop 

Been fed this month and mair 
Mak haste and thraw their necks about 

That Colin weel may fare 



* The e after the i in Bailiefs erased. 
t The M changed for m. 
i The c in Jock erased. 
§ A repetition of line 19. 



199 



And mak the Table neat and trim 

Let every thing be braw 
For who kens how Colin far'd* 

When he's beent far awa 

Sae true his hearty sae smooth his speech 

His breath like cauler air 
His very foot has Music in't 

As he comes up the stair 

And shall I see his face again 

And shall I hear him speak 
I'm down right giddy wi' the thought 

In troth I'm like to greet 

If Colin's weel,§ and weel content 

I hae nae mair to crave 
And gin I live to mak him sae 

I'm blest above the lave 

And shall I see his face again &c 



APPENDIX (b.) 



James Tytler was the son of a country clergy- 
man in the presbytery of Brechin, and brother to 
Dr. Tytler, the translator of Callimachus. He was 
instructed by his father in classical learning and 



* This line is deficient in measure. 
t Interlined, he was. 
X The first point in the MS. 
i The last point in the MS. 



200 



school divinity, and attained an accurate knowledge 
of the Latin and Greek languages, and an extensive 
acquaintance with biblical literature and scholastic 
theology. Having discovered an early predilection 
for the medical profession, he was put apprentice to 
a surgeon in Forfar, and afterwards sent to attend 
the medical classes at Edinburgh. While a medical 
student, he cultivated experimental chemistry and 
controversial theology with equal assiduity. Unfor- 
tunately his religious opinions, not deemed orthodox, 
or calvinistical, connected him with a society of 
Glassites, and involved him in a marriage with a 
member of the society, which terminated in a sepa- 
ration. He now settled at Leith, as an apothecary, 
depending on the patronage of his religious connec- 
tions ; but his separation from the society, which 
happened soon after, with an unsteadiness that was 
natural to him, disappointed his expectations. When 
he ceased to be a Glassite, he ceased not to be a firm 
believer in the Christian revelation, and a zealous ad- 
vocate of genuine Christianity ; but he never after- 
wards held communion with any denomination of 
Christians. The neglect of his business was the un- 
avoidable consequence of his attention to religious 
dissensions ; and having contracted debts to a consi- 
derable amount, he was obliged to remove to Ber- 
wick, and afterwards to Newcastle. In both places 



201 

he was employed in preparing chemical medicines 
for the druggists ; but the liberality of his employers 
being insufficient to preserve an increasing family 
from the evils of penury, he returned to Edinburgh, 
in the year 1772, in extreme poverty, and took re- 
fuge from the molestation of his creditors within the 
precincts of the sanctuary of Holyrood House. At 
this period his wife deserted him and their five chil- 
dren, the youngest only six months old, and returned 
to her relations. He solaced himself for the priva- 
tion of domestic happiness by composing a humorous 
ballad, entitled " The Pleasures of The Abbey" 
which was his first attempt in poetry. In a descrip- 
tion of its inhabitants, the author himself is intro- 
duced in the 16th and 17th stanzas. In the avoca- 
tion of an author by profession, which he was now 
compelled to assume, he displayed a versatility of 
talent and a facility in writing unexampled in the 
transactions of the press. He commenced his literary 
career by a publication entitled " Essays on the most 
important Subjects of natural and revealed Reli- 
gion" which issued from the asylum for debtors, 
under the peculiar circumstances of being composed 
by himself, at the printing case, from his own con- 
ceptions, without a manuscript before him, and 
wrought off at a press of his own construction, by 
his own hands. He left this singular work, which 



<202 



was to be completed in two volumes 8vo, unfinished, 
and turned aside, to attack the opinions of a new 
religious sect called Bereans, in a " Letter to Mr. 
John Barclay on the Doctrine of Assurance," in 
which he again performed the functions of author, 
compositor, and pressman. He next set forth, with 
such assistance as he could find, a monthly publica- 
tion, entitled " The Gentleman and Lady's Maga- 
zine" which was soon abandoned for " The Weekly 
Review" a literary miscellany, which, in its turn 
was discontinued in a very short time. These publi- 
cations, unavoidably disfigured with many typogra- 
phical deformities, made him known to the book- 
sellers ; and from them he afterwards found constant 
employment in compilations, abridgments, transla- 
tions, and miscellaneous essays. He now ventured 
to leave the miserable apartments which he had long 
occupied in the sanctuary for debtors, for more com- 
fortable lodgings, first at Restalrig, and afterwards 
in the city, and if his prudence and steadiness had 
been equal to his talents and industry, he might have 
earned by his labours a competent maintenance, 
which never fell to his lot. As he wrote for subsist- 
ence, not from the vanity of authorship, he was enr 
gaged in many works which were anonymous, and in 
others which appeared with the names of his em- 
ployers. He is editor or author of the following 



203 

works : " The Weekly Mirror" a periodical publi- 
cation which began in 17S0. " A System of Geo- 
graphy" \n 8vo. " A History of Edinburgh" 12mo. 
u A Geographical, Historical, and Commercial 
Grammar" 2 vols. 8vo. " A Review ofDr.Aitken's 
Theory of Inflammation" 12mo. with a poetical 
dedication. " Remarks on Mr. Pi?ikerto?i's Intro- 
duction to the History of Scotland" 8vo. " A 
poetical Translation of VirgiVs Eclogues" 4to. " A 
general Index to the Scots Magazine" " A System 
of Chemistry" written at the expense of a gentle- 
man who was to put his name to it, unpublished. 
He gave his assistance in preparing the System of 
Anatomy published by A. Bell, and was an occa- 
sional contributor to the " Medical Commentaries" 
and other periodical publications of the time. He 
was the principal editor of the second edition of the 
" Encyclopedia Britannica" and finished, with in- 
credible labour, a large proportion of the more con- 
siderable scientific treatises and histories, and almost 
all the minor articles. He had an apartment assigned 
him in the printing-house, where he performed the 
offices of compiler, and corrector of the press, at a 
salary of sixteen shillings a week ! When the third 
edition was undertaken, he was engaged as a stated 
contributor, upon more liberal terms, and wrote a 
larger share in the early volumes than is ascribed to 



204 



him in the general preface. It was his misfortune to 
be continually drawn aside from the business of his 
employers by the delight he took in prosecuting ex- 
periments in chemistry, electricity, and mechanics, 
which consumed a large portion of his time and 
money. He conducted for some time, with success, 
a manufacturing process for preparing Magnesia, of 
which he was the inventor ; but after he had disclosed 
his secret to the gentleman at whose expense it was 
carried on, he was dismissed, without obtaining 
either a share in the business, or a suitable compen- 
sation for his services. He was the first in Scotland 
who adventured in a fire-balloon, constructed upon 
the plan of Montgolfier. He ascended from Comely 
Garden, amidst the acclamations of an immense 
multitude, and descended at the distance of a quarter 
of a mile, owing to some unforeseen defect in the 
machinery. The failure of this adventure deprived 
him of the public favour and applause, and increased 
his pecuniary difficulties. He again had recourse to 
his pen for subsistence, and amidst the drudgery of 
writing, and the cares which pressed upon him daily, 
he exhilarated his spirits, at intervals, with a tune on 
the Irish bagpipe, which he played with much sweet- 
ness, interposing occasionally a song of his own com- 
position, sung with great animation. A solace of 
this kind was well suited to the simplicity of his 



205 



manners, the modesty of his disposition, and the in- 
tegrity of his character, such as they were before he 
suffered his social propensities to violate the rules of 
sobriety. Forgetting his old friends, he associated 
with discontented persons, and entered into a delibe- 
rate exposition of the abuses of government, in * A 
pamphlet on the Excise" and more systematically 
in a periodical publication, entitled u The Historical 
Register" which gratified malignity by personal in- 
vective and intemperance of language. He was 
concerned in the wild irrational plans of the British 
Convention, and published " A hand-bill addressed 
to the people? written in so inflammatory a style, as 
rendered him obnoxious to government. A warrant 
was issued to apprehend him, and he left his native 
country and crossed the Atlantic for America, where 
he fixed his residence in the town of Salem, in the 
state of Massachusetts, where he established a news- 
paper in connection with a printer, which he conti- 
nued till his death, which happened in the year 1805, 
in the 58th year of his age. 

The editor cannot dismiss this note without ac- 
knowledging himself greatly obliged by the commu- 
nications of Dr. Robert Anderson, of Edinburgh. 



206 



APPENDIX (c.) 



The reader will be pleased to find, from the fol- 
lowing communication to the Editor, by Mrs. 
Murray, of Bath (authoress of " Roy's Wife of 
Aldivalloch), that Mr. Ross was one of the very 
few writers that practised what they taught. 

" I knew a good deal of Mr. Ross, author of the 
Fortunate Shepherdess, but it was many years ago : 
— I still remember him with respect, as a man of 
most amiable character. His genius and talents 
speak for themselves in the above-mentioned beauti- 
ful little Poem, and one cannot help regretting that 
such abilities were only born to " blush unseen, and 
waste their sweetness on the desert air ;" for in truth 
his humble abode was little better than a desert, 
though not inhabited by savages; nothing on earth 
being less savage than a mere uncultivated High- 
lander. I speak from the experience of many years 
of the early part of my life, which I had the happi- 
ness of spending in the North Highlands of Scot- 
land, the country of ' Honest men and bonny 
lasses/ 

Mr. Ross was also author of two excellent 



S07 

Songs, called, " What ails the Lasses at me f and 
" The Rock and the wee pickle tow? They are 
printed in this Collection immediately after rt The 
Bridal o't" He was born about the year 1700. His 
father was a farmer, in the parish of Kincardine 
O'Neil, Aberdeenshire. His first settlement was at 
Birs, as parochial school-master, about the year 
1733. He removed to Lochlee, Forfarshire, where 
he died in May J 783, after residing fifty years in the 
centre of the Grampians, almost secluded from the 
converse of men and books. Mr. Ross's grandson, 
the Rev. Alexander Thomson, gives the following 
account of him in a letter to Mr. Campbell, author 
of An Introduction to the History of Poetry in 
Scotland, dated Lintrethen, 14th June, 1798. — 
" He (Ross) was a plain man, had the character of 
being a good school-master, was very religious, 
which appeared by his behaviour as much as by his 
profession. He was an excellent Latin scholar, and 
wrote with considerable accuracy, till the days of old 
age and infirmity, when he wrote a Poem, entitled, 
1 The Orphan] and attempted to publish it at 
Aberdeen, with some other little performances, 
which, on account of their inaccuracy, of which the 
worthy author was not so sensible as he would have 
formerly been, he was advised by Dr. Beattie, one 
of his best friends, not to publish." 



208 



In 1768 Mr. Ross published his " Fortunate 
Shepherdess/' with a few Songs. Immediately after 
their appearance, Dr. Beattie, in the most friendly 
manner, addressed a letter to " The Printer of the 
Aberdeen Journal" under the signature of " Oliver 
Oldstile;" together with some complimentary verses, 
addressed to the " facetious author," which he begged 
might be transmitted through the same channel 
" which," the Doctor observes, " may please some 
of your readers, and cannot, I think, offend any." 



209 



APPENDIX (d.) 



Mr. Skinner died in the arms of his only surviving 
aon, the Right Reverend John Skinner, Bishop of 
the diocese of Aberdeen, at the advanced age of 86, 
after having had the pastoral care of the Episcopal 
congregation at Longside (a remote parish in the 
North of Scotland) for nearly 65 years ! The ties of 
pastoral regard and affection, by which he was so 
long united to his beloved flock, could be cut asun- 
der only by the stroke of death ; and this dissolution 
of all his earthly connections having happened on the 
l6th of June, 1807, his sorrowing people had no 
sooner committed his body to the ground, than they 
set on foot a subscription, for raisiug a handsome 
monument to his memory, which has accordingly 
been erected in the church-yard of Longside, with a 
suitable inscription. 

The following well-told anecdote is a beautiful 
illustration of the simplicity of Mr. Skinner's cha- 
racter. 

" When surrounded by his grand-children in their 
VOL. i. p 



210 

early years, it was delightful to see how he could 
adapt himself to their yet humble but rising capaci- 
ties. He would make them verses by the hour. He 
would puzzle them with riddles, and little arithme- 
tical problems of his own invention. He would try 
to call forth the latent spark of genius, by proposing 
questions on the different branches of study in which 
they were occupied at school. Although in them- 
selves simple, and easy of solution, yet the grand- 
father had such art in quaintly arranging, and in enig- 
matically expressing, his questions, as conveyed the 
idea of extreme difficulty ; while, at the same time, 
no sooner did he himself proceed to unravel the 
seeming mystery, than even children blushed to find 
themselves duped and outwitted by means so com- 
pletely within the reach of their own detection. On 
one occasion of this kind, when his oldest grandson 
could not discover the little artifice employed to per- 
plex him, he was not a little alarmed by hearing his 
grandfather say, that even Thomas the Rhymer had 
prophesied on the subject of the fourth John Skin- 
ner's lamentable weakness of mind, and want of 
capacity, — 

' The world shall four John Skinners see, 
The frst sail teach a school ; — 
The other two shall parsons be, 
And the fourth shall be a fool? 



211 



" His old friend, however, afterwards made him 
ample amends for this rhyming jeu d' esprit. For 
after the young man became a clergyman, and grand- 
father , father , and son, had all officiated at one and 
the same diet of worship, at the chapel at Longside, 
he presented him with the following beautiful Latin 
verses. They are here inserted, not because free 
from the licentia poetica, but because, mingled with 
the proverbial blindness of a grandfather's partiality, 
the poetical license has completely usurped the place 
of truth, and given the manner, and not the matter, 
a claim to the notice of the learned reader. 

i Sanguinis ejusdem tres implent rostra Joannes, 
Est avus, est pater, est cams utrique nepos: 
Ingenio primus, sermonis laude secundus 
Claret ; in ambobus tertius ille nitet. 
Non potuere ultret Naturae tendere vires, 
Miscet avo patrem, et fingitur hide nepos !' 

The " Poetical Pieces" of this excellent old man 
(who answered most literally to Goldsmith's descrip- 
tion of the Village Preacher) have been lately col- 
lected, and published at Edinburgh, prefaced with 
some valuable remarks on his life and poetic talent. 
To this interesting account, already quoted, the reader 
is referred, The Editor would only observe, that 
the fine family Picture, so delicately sketched in 

p £ 



212 

The Old Mans Song subjoined, was not only de- 
scriptive of the author's own sentiments and enjoy- 
ments at the moment he wrote it, but it will long 
remain an artless and faithful representation of his 
character, his conduct, and his principles. 

THE OLD MAN'S SONG. 

Tuue— Dumbarton Drums. 

O ! why should old age so much wound us ! # 
There is nothing in it all to confound us : 

For how happy now am I, 

With my old wife sitting by, 
And our bairns and our oys*f all around us ; 

For how happy now am i, $c. 

We began in the warld wi' naething, 
And we've jogg'd on, and toil'd for the ae thing; 
We made use of what we had, 
And our thankful hearts were glad ; 
When we got the bit meat and the claithing, 
We made use of what we had, fyc. 

We have liv'd all our life-time contented, 
Since the day we became first acquainted : 

* This tune requires O to be added at the end of each of the 
long lines, but in reading the Song the O is better omitted. 
t Oys — Grand-children. 



213 

It's true we've been but poor, 
And we are so to this hour ; 
But we never yet repin'd or lamented. 
It's true we've been but poor, #c. 

When we had any stock, we ne'er vauntit, 
Nor did we hing our heads when we wantit ; 

But we always gave a share 

Of the little we cou'd spare, 
When it pleas'd a kind Heaven to grant it. 

But zve always gave a share, fyc. 

We never laid a scheme to be wealthy, 
By means that were cunning or stealthy ; 
But we always had the bliss, 
(And what further could we wiss), 
To be pleas'd with ourselves, and be healthy. 
But we always had the bliss, fyc. 

What tho' we cannot boast of our guineas, 
We have plenty of Jockies and Jeanies ; 

And these, I'm certain, are 

More desirable by far 
Than a bag full of poor yellow sleenies. 

And these, I am certain, are, fyc* 

We have seen many wonder and ferly, 
Of changes that almost are yearly, 



214 

Among rich folks up and down, 
Both in country and in town, 
Who now live but scrimply and barely, 
Among rich folks up and down, fyc. 

Then why should people brag of prosperity ? 

A straiten'd life we see is no rarity; 
Indeed we've been in want, 
And our living's been but scant, 

Yet we never were reduced to need charity. 
Indeed we've been in want, fyc. 

In this house we first came together, 
Where we've long been a father and mither ; 

And tho' not of stone and lime, 

It will last us all our time ; 
And, I hope, we shall ne'er need anither, 

And tho' not of stone and lime, fyc. 

And when we leave this poor habitation, 
We'll depart with a good commendation ; 

We'll go hand in hand, I wiss, 

To a better house than this, 
To make room for the next generation. 

Then why should old age so much zoound us, 

There is nothing in it all to confound us : 
For how happy now am I, 
With my old wife sitting by, 

And our bairns and our oys all around us. 






215 

The two subjoined letters were written by Burns 
to Mr. Skinner. They have not appeared in the se- 
ries of his Correspondence published either by Dr. 
Currie, or the Editor of these volumes. In the sum- 
mer of 1787, Burns made a tour through the west 
and north of Scotland ; and at Aberdeen met with 
Mr. Skinner's son, between whom an interesting 
conversation took place. The particulars of this in- 
terview were communicated to the father, stating 
also how much Burns regretted that he did not know 
where Linshart lay, as he would have gone twenty 
miles out of his way to have seen the author of 
Tullochgorum. This compliment immediately pro- 
duced an Epistle in familiar verse, addressed to 
Burns, who returned the following letter in reply, 
which, though without a date, appears to have been 
written in Edinburgh. 

I Reverend and venerable Sir, 

< Accept, in plain dull prose, my most sincere 
thanks for the best poetical compliment I ever receiv- 
ed. I assure you, Sir, as a poet, you have conjured 
up an airy demon of vanity in my fancy, which the 
best abilities in your other capacity would be ill able 
to lay. I regret, and while I live shall regret, that 
when I was in the north, I had not the pleasure of 
paying a younger brother's dutiful respect to the Au- 



216" 

thor of the best Scotch song ever Scotland saw, — • 
4 Tullochgorum's my delight !' The world may 
think slightingly of the craft of song-making, if they 
please ; but, as Job says, i O ! that mine adversary 
had written a book !' — let them try. There is a cer- 
tain something in the old Scotch songs, a wild hap- 
piness of thought and expression, which peculiarly 
marks them, not only from English songs, but also 
from the modern efforts of song-wrights, in our na- 
tive manner and language. The only remains of 
this enchantment, these spells of the imagination, 
rests with you. Our true brother, Ross of Lochlee, 
was likewise c owre cannie/ — a \ wild warlock' — 
but now he sings among the i Sons of the morning/ 
I have often wished, and will certainly endeavour, to 
form a kind of common acquaintance among all the 
genuine sons of Caledonian song. The world, busy 
in low prosaic pursuits, may overlook most of us ; — 
but { reverence thyself/ The world is not our 
peers, — so we challenge the jury. We can lash that 
world, — and find ourselves a very great source of 
amusement and happiness independent of that world. 
There is a work going on in Edinburgh, just now, 
which claims your best assistance. # An engraver in 
this town has set about collecting and publishing all 
the Scotch Songs, with the Music, that can be found. 
* Johnson's Musical Museum. 



217 

Songs in the English language, if by Scotchmen, are 
admitted ; but the Music must all be Scotch. Drs. 
Beattie and Blacklock are lending a hand, and the 
first musician in town presides over that department. 
I have been absolutely crazed about it, collecting old 
stanzas, and every information remaining, respecting 
their origin, authors, &c. This last is but a very 
fragment business ; but at the end of his second 
number, — the first is already published, — a small ac- 
count will be given of the authors, particularly to 
preserve those of latter times. Your three songs, 
f Tullochgorum, John of Badenyon, and Ewie wi 9 
the crookit Horn/ go in this second number. I was 
determined, before I got your letter, to write you, 
begging that you would let me know w 7 here the edi- 
tions of these pieces may be found, as you would 
wish them to continue in future times ; and if you 
would be so kind to this undertaking, as send any 
Songs, of your own or others, that you would think 
proper to publish. Your name will be inserted 
among the other authors, ' Ni/l ye, will ye. 9 One 
half of Scotland already give your songs to other au- 
thors. Paper is done. I beg to hear from you, — 
the sooner the better, as I leave Edinburgh in a fort- 
night or three weeks. I am, with the warmest sin- 
cerity, Sir, your obliged humble servant, 

Robert Burns/ 



218 

To this letter Mr. Skinner's answer was as fol- 
lows : 

Linshart, 14th November, 1787.* 
" Sir, 

" Your kind return, without date, but of post- 
mark October £5th, came to my hand only this day. 
Your acknowledgment of my poor but just enco- 
miums on your surprising genius, and your opinion of 
my rhyming excursions, are both, I think, by far too 
high. The difference between our two tracks of 
education, and ways of life, is entirely in your favour, 
and gives you the preference every manner of way. I 
know a classical education will not create a versify- 
ing taste, but it mightily improves and assists it ; and 
though, where both these meet, there may sometimes 
be ground for approbation, yet where taste appears 
single, as it were, and neither cramped nor supported 
by acquisition, I will always sustain the justice of its 
prior claim to applause. A small portion of taste 
this way I have had almost from childhood, especial- 

* Though this letter is already printed by Dr. Currie, in his 
edition of Burns's works, yet it cannot be deemed misplaced 
here, as it not only contains several curious and praise-worthy 
incidents in Mr. Skinner's life, but also historical remarks on 
some of the Songs published in this Collection. 

Ed. 



219 

ly in the old Scottish dialect ; and it is as old a thing 
as I remember, my fondness for ' Chryste-Kirk o' 
the Green,' which I had by heart ere I was twelve 
years of age, and which, some years ago, I attempted 
to turn into Latin verse. While 1 was young, I dab- 
bled a good deal in these things ; but, on getting the 
black gown, I gave it pretty much over, till my 
daughters grew up, who being all tolerably good 
singers, plagued me for words to some of their fa- 
vourite tunes, and so extorted those effusions which 
have made a public appearance beyond my expecta- 
tion, and contrary to my intentions, — at the same 
time that I hope there is nothing to be found in them 
uncharacteristic, or unbecoming the cloth, which I 
would always wish to see respected. As to the as- 
sistance you propose from me in the undertaking you 
are engaged in, I am sorry I cannot give it so far as 
I could wish, and you perhaps expect. My daugh- 
ters, who were my only intelligencers, are all forts- 
familiate, and the old woman, their mother, has lost 
that taste. There are two from my own pen, which 
I might give you, if worth the while : One to the 
old Scotch tune of c Dumbarton drums' The other, 
perhaps, you have met with, as your noble friend the 
Duchess has, I am told, heard of it. It was squeez- 
ed out of me by a brother parson in her neighbour- 



220 

hood, to accommodate a new highland reel for the 
Marquis's birth-day, to the stanza of 

' Tune your fiddles, tune them sweetly/ &c. 

There is another humourous thing, I have heard, 
said to be done by the Catholic priest Geddes, and 
which hit my taste much. 

* There was a wee wifeikie was comin frae the fair, 

' Had gotten a little drapikie, which bred her meikil 

care; 
c It took upo' the wifiVs heart, and she began to spew, 
€ And co' the wee wifeikie, I wish I binna fou. 

* I wish/ &c. 

I have heard of another new composition by a young 
plowman of my acquaintance, that I am vastly pleased 
with, to the tune of the * Humours of Glen/ which, 
I fear, wont do, as the music, I am told, is of Irish 
original. I have mentioned these, such as they are, 
to shew my readiness to oblige you, and to contribute 
my mite, if I could, to the patriotic work you have 
in hand, and which I wish all success to. You have 
only to notify your mind, and what you want of the 
above shall be sent you. Meantime, while you are 
thus publicly, I may say, employed, do not sheath 



your own proper and piercing weapon. From what 
I have seen of yours already, I am inclined to hope 
for much good. One lesson of virtue and morality 
delivered in your amusing style, and from such as 
you, will operate more than dozens would do from 
such as me, who shall be told, it is our employment, 
and be never more minded ; whereas, from a pen 
like yours, as being one of the many, what comes 
will be admired : — Admiration will produce regard, 
and regard will leave an impression, especially when 
example goes along. 

" Wishing you, from my poet-pen, all success, and 
in my other character, all happiness and heavenly di- 
rection, I remain, with esteem, your sincere friend, 

John Skinner." 

The next letter from Burns to our Author, is dated 
at Edinburgh, the 14th of February, 1788, and the 
following is a copy of it: 

' Reverend and dear Sir, 

( I have been a cripple now near three months, 
though I am getting vastly better, and have been very 
much hurried beside, or else I would have wrote you 
sooner. I must beg your pardon for the epistle you 
sent me appearing in the Magazine. I had given a 
copy or two to some of my intimate friends, but did 



oo2 

not know of the printing of it till the publication of 
the Magazine. However, as it does great honour to 
us both, I hope you will forgive it. The second vo- 
lume of the songs I mentioned to you in my last, is 
published to-day. I send you a copy, which I beg 
you will accept as a mark of the veneration I have 
long had, and shall ever have, for your character, and 
of the claim I make to your continued acquaintance. 
Your songs appear in the third volume, with your 
name in the index, as I assure you, Sir, I have heard 
your Tullochgorum, particularly among our west 
country folks, given to many different names, and 
most commonly to the immortal author of the Min- 
strel, who, indeed, never wrote any thing superior to 
6 Gie's a Sang, Montgomery cried' Your brother 
has promised me your verses to the Marquis of 
Huntly's Reel, which certainly deserve a place in the 
Collection. My kind host, Mr. Cruickshank, of the 
High School here, and said to be one of the best 
Latins in this age, begs me to make you his grateful 
acknowledgments for the entertainment he has got in 
a Latin publication of your's that I borrowed for 
him from your acquaintance, and my much respected 
friend, in this place, the reverend Dr. Webster. Mr. 
Cruickshank maintains that you write the best Latin 
since Buchanan. I leave Edinburgh to-morrow, but 
shall return in three weeks, Your song you men- 



223 



tioned in your last, to the tune of l Dumbarton 
Drums/ and the other, which you say was done by 
a brother by trade of mine, a plowman, I shall 
thank you much for a copy of each. I am ever, 
reverend Sir, with the most respectful esteem, and 
sincere veneration^ yours, 

Robert Burns/ 



224 



APPENDIX fe.J 



ACCOUNT OF THE LATE JOSEPH RITSON. 

(Communicated by a Barrister of Gray's Inn.) 

The subsequent authentic narrative of the last mo- 
ments of poor Ritson, while it may afford gratification 
to some of those who suffered under the lash of his 
sarcastic criticism, must at the same time offer some 
apology for that eccentricity and violence which too 
frequently disgrace his controversial writings, and even 
his antiquarian disquisitions, They doubtless origi- 
nated in that maniacal tendency which latterly burst 
forth into full outrage, and terminated in his death. 
It has been ascertained that a sister, elder than himself, 
fell also a victim to the same deplorable malady. Let 
it check the pride of human nature, even in that point 
on which we think we are most justified in valuing 
ourselves — the superiority of our intellectual faculties ; 
to mark in this, as well as in so many other instances, 
the near alliance between genius and insanity. 

It has been farther learned from a Mrs. Kirby, who 
knew him from early infancy, and retained more in- 



225 



iluence over him than any other person during the 
whole of his life, that his father was a man in a low 
condition of life, yet he found means to send him 
to a Latin school at Stockton, where he proved an 
attentive scholar, and made a rapid progress in such 
learning as was there taught. His habits were always 
reserved, rarely associating with his school-fellows. 
He afterwards passed some time in the office of Mr. 
Bradley, a conveyancer, of that town. On coming to 
London, he entered himself a student of Gray's Inn, 
and after keeping his proper terms, he was called to 
the bar. He never, however, paid much attention 
to the proper business of his profession. During the 
summer season he used to take long journeys on foot, 
with no other baggage than a shirt in each pocket ; 
and if he at any time found them too heavy, he made 
no hesitation in disencumbering himself by throwing 
one of them away. She also states him to have 
been very lax in his religious principles, of which, 
perhaps, she was, no very competent judge. If he in 
fact were so, let it be a warning to others to be care- 
ful how they throw aside any proper restraint of the 
mind, especially the most serious and important of all, 
that of religion, lest they should slacken, and, as took 
place in his unhappy case, ultimately lose all hold of 
the reins by which the imagination is guided. 

" The late Mr. Ritson lived in the same staircase 
with me in Gray's Inn for many years, and the com- 
vol. i. o 



226 



mon civilities of the day passed between us, but no- 
thing more. We never visited. I understood he 
possessed a great singularity of character ; but he was 
ever polite and civil to me. Early in September, 
1803, I frequently heard a great swearing and noise 
in his chambers, and, on meeting his laundress on 
the stairs, I asked her the cause of the disturbance I 
had heard. She answered, that she believed her 
master was out of his mind, for his conduct in every 
respect proved him so; and that she was greatly 
afraid that in his delirium he would do himself or her 
an injury. She said she had taken him his dinner the 
day before, but that he had not touched it, and that 
he never ate animal food. She was then going to 
him, but expressed a fear that he would burst into a 
rage, and abuse her as I had heard him before. The 
last time she was in the chambers, he had shut him- 
self up ; however, she left his dinner upon the table, 
and was then going to see if he had eaten it. I said, 
as she had expressed herself fearful, I would go with 
her to her master, which I accordingly did. I saw 
his dinner on the table, but he was still shut up in 
his room. I asked the laundress whether he had any 
relations in town. She said he had not ; but that he 
had a nephew somewhere in the North, who had 
lived with him for many years, but that Mr. Ritson 
had turned him out of his house for eating animal 



227 

food. 1 desired her to endeavour to find out some 
of his relations or friends, and to apprize them of 
his unhappy situation, and in the meantime to be very 
careful of him. 

" On the 10th of September, about nine o'clock 
in the evening, on my return to my chambers, my ser- 
vant told me that Mr. Ritson had been making a 
great noise, and that there was a great lighl in his 
room, which had alarmed the people in the Steward's 
office. I went immediately to the Steward's office, 
and looking from his window, I saw Mr. Ritson's 
room strewed with books and loose papers, some of 
which he was gathering up and throwing on the fire, 
which occasioned the great blaze they had seen. He 
had a lighted candle in his hand, which he carried 
about in a very dangerous manner. The Steward 
not being at home, I sent for him to represent to him 
Mr. Ritson's extraordinary conduct. However, being 
much alarmed, I went to Mr. Ritson's chambers, 
and knocked at the door several times, but could get 
no admission. At last a key was obtained from the 
laundress ; and Mr. Quin, the steward, and myself, 
with two porters, entered his chambers. He ap- 
peared much confused on seeing us, and asked how 
we came in ? We told him by means of the laun- 
dress's key. He then asked what we wanted ? Mr, 



228 

Quin told him, we came in consequence of the great 
blaze that appeared in his chambers, believing them 
to be on fire. He answered, that his fire had gone 
out, and that he was lighting it to make horse-radish 
tea. Mr. Quin then represented to him the great 
danger of making his fire with loose papers, parti- 
cularly as there were so many scattered about the 
room, some of which had actually taken fire. Mr. 
Quin therefore begged he would permit the porters 
to collect them together, and to put them away, and 
to do any thing he wanted ; upon which he said, no ! 
no ! and in the most peremptory manner ordered 
them to leave his chambers, saying they were only 
servants to the Society, and had no business in his 
chambers. Mr. Quin observed, that consistently 
with his duty as Steward of the Inn, he could not 
leave his chambers in that dangerous situation. Mr. 
Ritson then appearing much enraged, swore he would 
make them, for that they came to rob him, and im- 
mediately went to his bed-rooni, and returned with a 
drawn dagger in his hand ; at sight of which, Mr. 
Quin and the porters immediately left the chambers, 
Mr. Ritson pursuing them along the passage, and 
they in their hurry shut the outer door, leaving me in 
the room. On his return I disarmed him, and begged 
him to sit down while I explained every thing. He 



229 

was then very complaisant, and said he did not mean 
to offend me, but swore vengeance against those who 
had left the room. He insisted on my going into 
his best apartment, which I did, and found his books 
and papers scattered on the floor, as they were in the 
other chamber. He asked me to drink with him, 
which I refused. He paid me some compliments as 
a neighbour, and said he would give me a history of 
his life. He told me he had a great passion for 
books, of which he possessed the finest collection in 
England. That he had written upon many subjects, 
and had confuted many who had written upon law 
and theology. He said he was then writing a pam- 
phlet proving Jesus Christ an impostor! but that 
something had lately discomposed him, and he was 
therefore resolved to destroy many of his manuscripts, 
for which purpose he was then sorting his papers. 
I heard him patiently for an hour and an half, when 
I advised him to go to bed, which he said he would 
do, and I left him seemingly composed. About an 
hour after, he became very violent and outrageous, 
throwing his furniture about his chambers and break- 
ing his windows. I then went to him again, and 
endeavoured to pacify him, but without effect. He 
had a dagger in one hand and a knife in the other, 
though I had taken the other dagger from him, and 



'230 



carried it to my own chambers. He raved for a 
considerable time, till, being quite exhausted, he 
went to sleep. A person was then sent for from 
Hoxton to take care of him, who remained with 
him five days, and said that his derangement was in- 
curable. I visited him every day, when he appeared 
very glad to see me, and said, ' Here comes my 
friend, who will set me at liberty;' but violently 
abused his keeper, and said, the devil would torment 
him for his cruelty in keeping him so confined. It 
was thought proper by his friends to remove him to a 
mad-house, where I understand he died in a few days. 
I have since learned that his malady was a family 
disorder, and that his sister died mad." 



3\st March, 1804. 



END OF VOL. I. 



j. m'creery, Printer, 
Black-Horse-Court, London. 



SELECT 

SCOTISH SONGS, 

ANCIENT AND MODERN; 

•WITH 

CRITICAL OBSERVATIONS AND BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES, 

BY ROBERT BURNS. 



EDITED 

By R. H. CROMEK, F.A. S. Ed. 



VOL. II. 




LONDON: 

PRINTED FOR T. CADELL AND W. DAVIES, STRAND. 
By J. M'CREERT, Black-Borse-Court, Fleet-Street. 

1810. 



SELECT SCOTISH SONGS, fee. 



TAK YOUR AULD CLOAK ABOUT YE. 

A PART of this old song, according to the En- 
glish set of it, is quoted in Shakspeare.* 

In winter when the rain rain'd cauld, 

And frost and snaw on ilka hill, 
And Boreas, with his blasts sae bauld, 

Was threat'ning a' our ky to kill : 
Then Bell my wife, wha loves na strife, 

She said to me right hastily, 
Get up, goodman, save Cromy's life, 

And tak your auld cloak about ye, 

My Cromie is an useful cow, 

And she is come of a good kyne ; 

Aft has she wet the bairns' mou, 
And I am laith that she shou'd tyne 

* In the drinking scene in Othello. This song was recovered 
by Dr. Percy, and preserved by him in his Reliques of Antient 
Poetry, 

VOL. II. B 



Get up, goodman, it is fou time, 
The sun shines in the lift sae hie ; 

Sloth never made a gracious end, 
Go tak your auld cloak about ye. 

My cloak was anes a good grey cloak, 

When it was fitting for my wear ; 
But now it's scantly worth a groat, 

For I have worn't this thirty year ; 
Let's spend the gear that we have won, 

We little ken the day we'll die : 
Then I'll be proud, since I have sworn 

To have a new cloak about me. 

In days when our king Robert rang, 

His trews they cost but haff a crown ; 
He said they were a groat o'er dear, 

And call'd the taylor thief and loun. 
He was the king that wore a crown, 

And thou the man of laigh degree, 
'Tis pride puts a' the country down, 

Sae tak thy auld cloak about thee. 

Every land has its ain laugh, 
Ilk kind of corn it has its hool, 

I think the warld is a' run wrang, 
When ilka wife her man wad rule ; 



Do ye not see Rob, Jock, and Hab, 
As they are girded gallantly, 

While I sit hurklen in the ase ; 
I'll have a new cloak about me. 

Goodman, I wate 'tis thirty years, 

Since we did ane anither ken ; 
And we have had between us twa, 

Of lads and bonny lasses ten : 
Now they are women grown and men, 

I wish and pray well may they be ; 
And if you prove a good husband, 

E'en tak your auld cloak about ye. 

Bell my wife, she loves na strife ; 

But she wad guide me, if she can, 
And to maintain an easy life, 

I aft maun yield, tho' I'm goodman : 
Nought's to be won at woman's hand, 

Unless ye give her a' the plea ; 
Then I'll leave aff where I began, 

And tak my auld cloak about me. 



B £ 



RATTLIN, ROARIN WILLIE. 

The last stanza of this song is mine; it was com- 
posed out of compliment to one of the worthiest 
fellows in the world, William Dunbar, Esq. Writer 
to the signet, Edinburgh, and Colonel of the 
Crochallan corps, a club of wits who took that title 
at the time of raising the fencible regiments, 

O rattlin, roarin Willie, 

O he held to the fair, 
An' for to sell his fiddle, 

And buy some ither ware ; 
But parting wi' his fiddle, 

The saut tear blint his ee ; 
And rattlin roarin Willie, 

Ye're welcome hame to me. 

O Willie, come sell your fiddle, 

O sell your fiddle sae fine ; 
O Willie come sell your fiddle, 

And buy a pint o' wine. 
If I should sell my fiddle, 

The warl' wou'd think I was mad. 
For many a rantin day 

My fiddle and I hae had ! 



1 



5 



As I cam by Crochallan, 

I cannilie keekit ben, 
Rattlin, roarin Willie 

Was sitting at yon boord-en* ; 
Sitting at yon boord-en', 

And amang guid companie ; 
Rattlin, roarin Willie, 

Ye're welcome hame to me ! 



WHERE BRAVING ANGRY WINTERS STORMS. 

This song I composed on one of the most accom- 
plished of women, Miss Peggy Chalmers that was, 
now Mrs. Lewis Hay, of Forbes and Co's bank, 
Edinburgh. 

Tune — Niel Gow's Lamentation for Abercairney,* 

Where braving angry winter's storms, 

The lofty Ochels rise, 
Far in their shade my Peggy's charms 

First blest my wandering eyes. 

* The different publications which have appeared under the 
name of Neil Gow, and which contain not only his sets of the 
older tunes, but various occasional airs of his own composition, 

for 



6 



As one who by some savage stream, 

A lonely gem surveys, 
Astonish'd, doubly marks its beam, 

With art's most polish'd blaze. 

Blest be the wild, sequester'd shade, 
And blest the day and hour, 

Where Peggy's charms I first survey 'd, 
When first I felt their pow'r ! 

The tyrant death with grim controul, 
May seize my Beeting breath, 

But tearing Peggy from my soul 
Must be a stronger death. 



for instance, his " Lamentation for Abercairney," and " Loch- 
Erroch-side," are striking specimens of his genius, feeling, and 
power of embellishment. These were set and prepared for pub- 
lication, by his son Nathaniel ; whose respectable character, and 
propriety of conduct, have long secured him the esteem and 
favour of the public ; and whose knowledge of composition, and 
variety of talent in the art, joined with the greatest refinement 
of taste, elegance of expression, and power of execution, ren- 
der him (beyond all dispute) the most accomplished and success- 
ful performer of Scottish music in general, ever produced by 
this country." 

Scots Mag. Jan. 1809. 



NANCY S GHOST. 



THIS song is by Dr. Blacklock. 



THIS song I composed about the age of seven- 
teen. 

Tune — Invercald's Reel. 

O Tibbie, I hae seen the day 
Ye wadna been sae shy ; 
For laik o' gear ye lightly me, 
But trowth, I care na by. 

Yestreen I met you on the moor, 
Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure ; 
Ye geek at me because I'm poor, 
But feint a hair care I. 
Tibbie, I hae, fyc. 



I doubt na, lass, but ye may think, 
Because ye hae the name o' clink, 
That ye can please me at a wink, 
Whene'er ye like to try. 
Tibbie, I hae, fyc. 

But sorrow tak him that's sae mean, 
Altho' his pouch o' coin were clean, 
Wha follows ony saucy quean 
That looks sae proud and high. 
Tibbie, I hae, fyc. 

Altho' a lad were e'er sae smart, 
If that he want the yellow dirt, 
Ye'll cast your head anither airt, 
An' answer him fu' dry. 
Tibbie, I hae, <!Sfc. 

But if he hae the name o' gear, 
Ye'll fasten to him like a brier, 
Tho' hardly he for sense or lear 
Be better than the kye. 
Tibbie, I hae, fyc. 

But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice, 
Your daddie's gear maks you sae nice, 
The deil a ane wad speir your price, 
Were ye as poor as I. 
Tibbie, 1 hae, fyc. 



COLLIER LADDIE. 

I DO not knozo a blythei* old song than this. 

Whare live ye, my borne lass, 
And tell me what they ca' ye ? 

My name, she says, is Mistress Jean, 
And I follow the Collier laddie. 

See ye not yon hills and dales 
The sun shines on sae brawlie ! 

They a' are mine and they shall be thine, 
Gin yell leave your Collier laddie. 

Ye shall gang in gay attire, 

Weel buskit up sae gawdy ; 
And ane to wait on every hand 

Gin ye'il leave your Collier laddie. 

Tho' ye had a' the sun shines on, 
And the earth conceals sae lowly ; 

I wad turn my back on you and it a', 
And embrace my Collier laddie. 

I can win my five-pennies in a day, 
And spen't at night fV brawlie : 

And make my bed in the Collier's neuk, 
And lie down wi' my Collier laddie. 



10 



Loove for loove is the bargain for me, 
Tho' the wee cot-house should haud me, 

And the warld before me to win my bread, 
And fair fa' my Collier laddie. 



YE GODS, WAS STREPHON's PICTURE BLEST? 

Tune — Fourteenth of October. 

The title of this air shews that it alludes to the 
famous king Crispian, the patron of the honorable 

corporation of Shoemakers. — St. Crispian' s day 
falls on the fourteenth of October , old style, as the 

old proverb tells; 

On the fourteenth of October 
Was ne'er a sutor* sober. 



SINCE ROBBED OF ALL THAT CHARMED MY 
VIEWS. 

THE old name of this air is, The blossom o' the 
Raspberry. The song is Dr. BlacklocUs. 

* A shoemaker. 



11 



MUSING ON THE ROARING OCEAN. 

I COMPOSED these verses out of compliment to a 
Mrs. M' Lachlan, xohose husband is an officer in the 
East Indies. 

Tune— Drumion Dubh. 

Musing on the roaring ocean, 
Which divides my love and me ; 

Wearying heaven in warm devotion, 
For his weal where'er he be. 

Hope and fear's alternate billow 

Yielding late to nature's law, 
Whisp'ring spirits round my pillow, 

Talk of him that's far awa. 

Ye whom sorrow never wounded, 

Ye who never shed a tear, 
Care-untroubled, joy-surrounded, 

Gaudy day to you is dear. 

Gentle night, do thou befriend me, 
Downy sleep the curtain draw ; 

Spirits kind, again attend me, 
Talk of him that's far awa ! 



12 



YOUNG DAMON. 



THIS air is by Oswald. 



BLYTHE WAS SHE. 

I COMPOSED these verses while I stayed at Och- 
tertyre zoith Sir William Murray. — The lady, zeho 
was also at Ochtertyre at the same time, was the 
well-known toast. Miss Euphemia Murray of Len- 
trose, who was called, and very justly, The Flower 
of Strathmore. 

Blythe, blythe and merry was she, 
Blythe was she but and ben; 
Blythe by the banks of Em, 
And blythe in Glenturit glen. 

By Oughtertyre grows the aik, 
On Yarrow banks, the birken shaw ; 
But Phemie was a bonnier lass, 
Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw. 

Blythe, fyc. 



13 

Her looks were like a flow'r in May, 
Her smile was like a simmer morn ; 
She tripped by the banks of Era, 
As light's a bird upon a thorn * 
Sly the, fyc. 

Her bonie face it was as meek 
As ony lamb upon a lee ; 
The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet 
As was the blink o' Phemie's e'e. 
Blythe, fyc. 

The Highland hills I've wander'd wide. 
And o'er the lawlands I hae been, 
But Phemie was the blythest lass 
That ever trod the dewy green. 
Blythe, fyc. 



ABSENCE. 



THIS song and air are both by Dr. Blacklock; 
the song is in the manner of Shenstone. 



14 



JOHNY FAA, OR THE GYPSIE LADDIE. 

The people in Ayrshire begin this song — 

The gypsies cam to my Lord Cassilis' yett. 

They have a great many more stanzas in this 
song than I ever yet saw in any printed copy.* — 

* The Editor gives this verse as a specimen : — 

My ladie's skin, like the driven snaw, 
Looked through her satin deed in', 

Her white hause, as the wine ran down, 
It like a rose did redden. 

As it had been observed, that neighbouring tradition strongly 
vouched for the truth of the story upon which this ballad is 
founded, Mr. Finlay, with a laudable curiosity, resolved to make 
the necessary inquiries, the result of which, without much varia- 
tion, he published in his lt Scottish Ballads," and is as follows: 

" That the Earl of Cassilis iiad married a nobleman's daughter 
contrary to her wishes, she having been previously engaged to 
another; but that the persuasion and importunity of her friends 
at last brought her to consent : That Sir John Faw, of Dunbar, 
her former lover, seizing the opportunity of the Earl's absence 
on a foreign embassy, disguised himself and a number of his re- 
tainers as gypsies, and carried orT the lady, 'nothing loth:' 
That the Earl having returned opportunely at the time of the 
commission of the act, and nowise inclined to participate in his 

consort's 



U 

The castle is still remaining at Maybole, zvhere his 
lordship shut up his wayzvard spouse, and kept her 
for life. 

The gypsies came to our good lord's gate 
And wow but they sang sweetly ; 

They sang sae sweet, and sae very complete, 
That down came the fair ladie. 



consort's ideas on the subject, collected his vassals, and, pur- 
sued the lady and her paramour to the borders of England, 
where, having overtaken them, a battle ensued, in which Faw 
and his followers were all killed or taken prisoners, excepting 
one, 

the meanest of them all, 

Who lives to weep and sing their fall. 

" It is by this survivor that the ballad is supposed to have 
been written. The Earl, on bringing back the fair fugitive, 
banished her a mensa et thorce, and, it is said, confined her for 
life in a tower at the village of Maybole, in Ayrshire, built for 
the purpose ; and, that nothing might remain about this tower 
unappropriated to its original destination, eight heads, carved in 
stone, below one of the turrets, are said to be the effigies of so 
many of the gypsies. The lady herself, as well as the survivor of 
Faw's followers, contributed to perpetuate the remembrance 
of the transaction ; for if he wrote a song about it, she wrought 
it in tapestry ; and this piece of workmanship is still preserved at 

Culzean 



\6 



And she came tripping down the staii> 
And a' her maids before her ; 

As soon as they saw her weelfar'd face, 
They coost the glamer o'er her. 

" Gar tak fra me this gay mantile,. 

And bring to me a plaidie ; 
For if kith and kin and a' had sworn, 

I'll follow the gypsie laddie. 

" Yestreen I lay in a well-made bed, 
And my good lord beside me ; 

This night I'll ly in a tenant's barn, 
Whatever shall betide me." 



Culzean Castle. It remains to be mentioned, tbat the ford, by 
which the lady and her lover crossed the river Doon from a wood 
near Cassilis-house, is still denominated the Gypsies' Steps. 

" There seems to be no reason for identifying the hero with 
Johnie Faa, who was king of the gypsies about the year 1590. 
The coincidence of names, and the disguise assumed by the 
lover, is perhaps the foundation on which popular tradition ha3 
raised the structure. Upon authority so vague, nothing can be 
assumed ; and indeed I am inclined to adopt the opinion of a 
correspondent, that the whole story may have been the inven- 
tion of some feudal or political rival, to injure the character and 
hurt the feelings of an opponent ; at least, after a pretty diligent 
search, I have been able to discover nothing that in the slightest 
degree confirms the popular tale," 



17 

Come to your bed, says Johny Faa, 
Oh ! come to your bed, my deary ; 

For I vow and swear by the hilt of my sword, 
That your lord shall nae mair come near ye. 

" I'll go to bed to my Johny Faa, 
And I'll go to bed to my deary ; 

For I vow and swear by what past yestreen, 
That my lord shall nae mair come near me." 

u I'll mak a hap to my Johny Faa, 
And I'll mak a hap to my deary ; 

And he's get a' the coat gaes round, 

And my lord shall nae mair come near me." 

And when our lord came home at e'en, 

And speir'd for his fair lady, 
The tane she cry'd, and the other reply 'd, 

She's away wi' the gypsie laddie. 

" Gae saddle to me the black, black steed, 
Gae saddle and mak him ready ; 

Before that I either eat or sleep, 
I'll gae seek my fair lady." 

And we were fifteen well-made men, 

Altho' we were nae bonny ; 
And we were a' put down for ane, 
A fair young wanton lady. 
VOL. ii. c 



18 



TO DAUNTON ME. 

The two following old stanzas to this tune have 
some merit: 

To daunton me, to daunton me, 

ken ye what it is that'll daunton me? — 
There's eighty eight and eighty nine, 
And a' that I hae borne sinsyne, 
There's cess and press and Presbytrie, 

1 think it will do meikle for to daunton me. 

But to wanton me, to wanton me, 

ken ye what it is that wad wanton me ?— 
To see gude corn upon the rigs, 

And banishment amang the Whigs, 
And right restored where right sud be, 

1 think it would do meikle for to wanton me.* 



* A third verse runs thus :— 

But to wanton me, to wanton me, 
O ken ye what maist wad wanton me ? 
To see king James at Edinb'rough Cross, 
Wi' fifty thousand foot and horse, 
And the usurper forc'd .to flee, 
O this is that maist wad wanton me, 



19 



THE BONIE LASS MADE THE BED TO ME, 

" The Bonie Lass made the Bed to me" was 
composed on an amour of Charles II. when sculking 
in the North, about Aberdeen, in the time of the 
usurpation. He formed une petite affaire with a 
daughter of the House of Port-letham, who was the 
lass that made the bed to him: — two verses of it 
are, 

I kiss'd her lips sae rosy red, 

While the tear stood blinkin in her ee ; 

I said my lassie dinna cry, 

For ye ay shall mak the bed to me. 

She took her mither's winding sheet, 
And o't she made a sark to me ; 

Ely the and merry may she be, 
The lass that made the bed to me; 



When Januar wind was blawing cauld, 
As to the North I took my way, 
The mirksome night did me enfauld^ 
I knew na where to lodge till day. 



20 

By my gude luck a maid I met, 
Just in the middle o' my care ; 
And kindly she did me invite 
To walk into a chamber fair. 

I bow'd fu' low unto this maid, 
And thank'd her for her courtesie ; 
I bow'd fu' low unto this maid, 
And bad her mak a bed for me. 

She made the bed baith large and wide, 
Wi' twa white hands she spread it down ; 
She put the cup to her rosy lips, 
And drank " Young man now sleep ye sound." 

She snatch'd the candle in her hand, 
And frae my chamber went wi' speed ; 
But I call'd her quickly back again 
To lay some mair below my head. 

A cod # she laid below my head, 
And served me wi' due respect ; 
And to salute her wi' a kiss, 
I pat my arms about her neck. 

Haud aff your hands, young man, she says, 
And dinna sae uncivil be : 
Gif ye hae ony luve for me, 
O wrang nae my virginitie ! 
* A pillow. 



21 

Her hair was like the links o' gowd, 
Her teeth were like the ivorie ; 
Her cheeks like lilies dipt in wine, 
The lass that made the bed to me. 

Her bosom was the driven snaw, 
Twa drifted heaps sae fair to see ! 
Her limbs the polish'd marble stane, 
The lass that made the bed to me. 

I kiss'd her o'er and o'er again, 
And ay she wist na what to say ; 
I laid her between me and the wa', 
The lassie thought na lang till day. 

Upon the morrow when we raise, 
I thank'd her for her courtesie ; 
But ay she blush'd, and ay she sigh'd, 
.'And said, alas ! ye've ruin'd me. 

I clasp'd her waist, and kiss'd her syne, 
While the tear stood twinklin in her ee ; 
I said, my lassie, dinna cry, 
For ye ay shall mak the bed to me. 

She took her mither's holland sheets, 
And made them a' in sarks to me : 
JBlythe and merry may she be, 
The lass that made the bed to me. 



<22 

The bonie lassie made the bed to me, 
The braw lass made the bed to me : 
I'll ne'er forget till the day that I die, 
The lass that made the bed to me ! 



I HAD A HORSE AND I HAD NAE MAIR. 

THIS story was founded on fact. A John Hun- 
ter, ancestor to a very respectable farming family 
who live in a place in the parish, I think, ofGalston, 
called Barr-mill, was the luckless hero that had a 
horse and had nae mair. — For some little youthful 
follies he found it necessary to make a retreat to the 
West- Highlands, where he feed himself to a High- 
land Laird, for that is the expression of all the oral 
editions of the song I ever heard. — The present Mr. 
Hunter, who told me the anecdote, is the great 
grand-child to our hero. 

I had a horse, and I had nae mair, 

I gat him frae my daddy ; 
My purse was light, and my heart was sair, 

But my wit it was fu' ready. 



£3 

And sae I thought me on a time, 

Outwittens of my daddy, 
To fee mysel to a lawland laird, 

Wha had a bonny lady. 

I wrote a letter, and thus began, 

" Madam, be not offended, 
I'm o'er the lugs in love wi' you, 

And care not tho' ye kend it : 
For I get little frae the laird, 

And far less frae my daddy, 
And I would blythely be the man 

Would strive to please my lady." 

She read my letter, and she leugh, 

" Ye needna been sae blate, man ; 
You might hae come to me yoursel, 

And tauld me o' your state, man : 
You might hae come to me yoursel, 

Outwittens o' ony body, 
And made John Gowkston of the laird, # 

And kiss'd his bonny lady." 



* To make John Gowkston of a laird, is, I fear, an unintelligible 
phrase to a mere English reader : when he is told that the 
word Gowk is Scotch for Cuckoo, a very familiar association will 
supply him with the rest.— Ed. 



24 

Then she pat siller in my purse, 

We drank wine in a coggie ; 
She feed a man to rub my horse, 

And wow ! but I was vogie. 
But I gat ne'er sa sair a fleg, 

Since I came frae my daddy, 
The laird came, rap rap, to the yett, 

When I was wi' his lady. 

Then she pat me below a chair, 

And happ'd me wi* a plaidie ; 
But I was like to swarf wi' fear, 

And wish'd me wi' my daddy. 
The laird went out, he saw na me, 

I went when I was ready : 
I promised, but I ne'er gade back 

To kiss his bonny lady. 



A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK. 

This song I composed on Miss Jenny Cruik- 
shank, only child to my worthy friend Mr. Wm. 
Craikshank, of the High- School, Edinburgh. The 
air is by a David Sillar, quondam Merchant , and 



25 

now Schoolmaster in Irvine. He is the Davie to 
whom I address my 'printed poetical epistle in the 
measure of the Cherry and the Slae. # 

* TJie Cheney and the Slae was written by Capt. Alexander 
Montgomery (See "The Evergreen," 1724). He died 1591. 
To the admirers of this Allegory the following excerpt from an 
unpublished work by the late Mr. Ritson will be interesting. 

" That this Poem was written before 1584 is evident from its 
being repeatedly quoted by K. James VI. in his ' Rewlis and 
Cautells of Scottis Poesie,' printed in that year. Ramsay tells 
us, that his edition is taken from two curious old ones, the first 
printed by Robert Walgrave, the King's printer, in 1597, accord- 
ing to a copy corrected by the author himself; the other by 
Andro Hart, printed 1615, said on the title-page to be newly 
altered, perfyted, and divided into 114 quatuorzeims, not long 
before the author's death." 

a The first of these editions, however, so far from having been 
corrected by the author, is both grossly inaccurate and mani- 
festly surreptitious, not containing above half the Poem, and 
breaking off abruptly in the middle of a stanza. The other has 
not been met with, which is one reason why the entire Poem 
was not reprinted. Captain Montgomeiy was not, as is gene- 
rally supposed, the inventor of this sort of stanza. He only imi- 
tated a more ancient piece, intitled, ' The Banks of Helicon,' 
which is still extant; and the tune, to which both Poems appear 
to have been originally sung, is still known in Wales by the name 
of Glyn Helicon. The Allegory of this Poem (according to 
Dempster, who translated it into Latin) is the conflict of the 
Virtues and Vices, or the choice of a state in Youth." 



26 



AULD ROBIN GRAY. 



THIS air was formerly called The Bridegroom 
greets when the sun gangs down. The words are by 
Lady Ann Lindsay. 

When the sheep are in the fauld, and the ky at hame, 

And a' the warld to sleep are gane ; 
The waes of my heart fa' in show'rs frae my ee, 

When my gudeman lyes sound by me. 

Young Jamie loo'd me weel, and he sought me for 
his bride, 

But saving a crown he had naething beside ; 
To make that crown a pound, my Jamie gade to sea, 

And the crown and the pound were baith for me. 

He had nae been awa a week but only twa, 

When my mother she fell sick, and the cow was 
stown awa ; 

My father brak his arm, and my Jamie at the sea, 
And auld Robin Gray came a courting me, 

My father coudna work, and my mother coudna 
spin, 
I toil'd day and night, but their bread I coudna 



27 

Auld Rob maintained them baith, and wi' tears in 
his ee, 
Said, " Jenny, for their sakes, O marry me." 

My heart it said nay, I look'd for Jamie back, 

But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a 
wrack ; 

The ship it was a wrack, why didna Jenny die, 
And why do I live to say, waes me ? 

My father argued sair, tho' my mither didna speak, 
She look'd in my face till my heart was like to 
break ; 
So they gi'ed him my hand, tho' my heart was in the 
sea, 
And auld Robin Gray is gudeman to me. 

I hadna been a wife a w r eek but only four, 
When sitting sae mournfully at the door, 

I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I coudna think it he, 
'Till he said, " I'm come back for to marry thee. ,; 

sair did we greet, and mickle did we say, 

We took but ae kiss, and we tore ourselves away, 

1 wish I were dead ! but I'm no like to die, 

And why do I live to say, waes me ! 



28 

I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin, 

I darena think on Jamie, for that .wad be a sin ; 

But I'll do my best a gudewife to be, 
For auld Robin Gray is kind unto me. # 

* Mr. Pinkerton, after observing that none of the " Scotch 
amatory ballads," as he remembers, u are written by ladies ? 
and that the " profligacy of manners which always reigns before 
women can so utterly forget all sense of decency and propriety 
as to commence authors, is yet almost unknown in Scotland," 
adds, in a note, that " there is, indeed, of very late years, one 
insignificant exception to this rule: Auld Robin Gray, having 
got his silly psalm set to soporific music, is, to the credit of our 
taste, popular for the day. But after lulling some good-natured 
audiences asleep, he will soon fall asleep himself." Little Rit- 
son, with a becoming boldness and indignation at the author of 
these ungracious and ungallant remarks, steps forward with his 
accustomed Bantom-cock courage, and thus strikes at the hard 
forehead of Pinkerton. " Alas ! this i silly psalm' will continue 
to be sung, c to the credit of our taste/ long after the author of 
this equally ridiculous and malignant paragraph shall be as com- 
pletely forgotten as yesterday's Ephemeron, and his printed 
trash be only occasionally discernible at the bottom of a pye. 
Of the 24 Scotish Song-writers whose names are preserved, 
four, if not five, are females 3 and, as poetesses, two more might 
be added to the number." 

At the time Mr. Pinkerton made this unmanly remark, 
he must have been aware that an examination of the cha- 
racters of our principal female authors would have convinced 
him of its fallacy. Nor would he find many instances at the 
present day, to bear him out in it 5 and the spotless and ho- 
nourable 



29 



UP AND WARN a' WILLIE. 

The expression, " Up and warn a' Willie/' alludes 
to the Crantara, or warning of a Highland Clan 
to arms. Not understanding this, the Lowlanders 
in the west and south say, "Up and waur them 
a," fyc. This edition of the song I got from Tom 
Niel, # of facetious fame, in Edinburgh. 

Up and warn a', Willie, 
Warn, warn d j 
To hear my canty highland sang, 
Helate the thing I saw, Willie. 

nourable names of Baillie, More, Edgeworth, Hamilton, &e. 
ought to shame him into the disavowal of a sentiment so 
malicious and unjust ; a sentiment which gives an air of truth 
to what in the following extract would otherwise have appeared 
an hyperbole. It is addressed by a distinguished writer to a 
bookseller of eminence in Edinburgh. — " It is very true, my 
friend, that literary imposture is not entirely confined to your 
side of the Tweed: — but 'evil communications,' you know, 
i corrupt good manners/ It is a curious fact, that the name of 
1 John Pinkerton' should be found in the list of those ortho- 
dox antiquaries who have certified their belief in the authenticity 
of the Shakespeare papers. Was the fellow really taken in ? or 
is it a point of honor in one forger to countenance another?" 

* Tom Neil was a carpenter in Edinburgh, and lived chiefly 
by making coffins. He was also Precentor, or Clerk, in one of 
the churches. He had a good strong voice, and was greatly dis- 
tinguished by his powers of mimicry, and his humorous manner 
of singing the old Scotish ballads. 



30 



When we gaed to the braes o' Mar, 
And to the wapon-shaw, Willie, 
Wi' true design to serve the king, 
And banish whigs awa, Willie. 
Up and warn a', Willie, 
Warn, warn a'; 
For lords and lairds came there bedeen, 
And wow but they were braw, Willie. 

But when the standard was set up, 

Right fierce the wind did blaw, Willie'; 
The royal nit upon the tap 

Down to the ground did fa', Willie. 
Up and warn a', Willie, 
Warn, warn a' ; 
Then second-sighted Sandy said, 
We'd do nae gude at a', Willie. 

But when the army join'd at Perth, 
The bravest e'er ye saw, Willie, 
We didna doubt the rogues to rout, 
Restore our king and a', Willie. 
Up and warn a', Willie, 
Warn, warn a' ; 
The pipers play'd frae right to left, 
O whirry whigs awa, Willie. 



31 

But when we march'd to Sherra-muir, 

And there the rebels saw, Willie, 
Brave Argyle attack'd our right, 
Our flank and front and a', Willie. 
Up and warn a', Willie, 
Warn, warn a' ; 
Traitor Huntly soon gave way, 
Seaforth, St. Clair and a', Willie 

But brave Glengary on our right, 

The rebels' left did claw, Willie; 
He there the greatest slaughter made 
That ever Donald saw, Willie. 
Up and warn a', Willie, 
Warn, warn a' ; 
And Whittam s — t his breeks for fear, 
And fast did rin awa, Willie. 

For he ca'd us a Highland mob, 

And soon he'd slay us a', Willie, 
But we chas'd him back to Stirling brig, 
Dragoons and foot and a', Willie. 
Up and warn a', Willie, 
Warn, warn a* ; 
At length we rallied on a hill, 
And briskly up did draw, Willie. 

But when Argyle did view our line, 
And them in order saw, Willie, 



32 

He streight gaed to Dumblane again, 
And back his left did draw, Willie. 
Up and warn a', Willie, 
Warn, warn a' ; 
Then we to Auchteraider march'd, 
To wait a better fa', Willie. 

Now if ye spier wha wan the day, 

I've tell'd you what I saw, Willie, 
We baith did fight and baith did beat, 
And baith did rin awa, Willie. 
Up and warn a', Willie, 
Warn, warn a' ; 
For second-sighted Sandie said, 
We'd do nae gude at a\ Willie. # 



KIRK WAD LET ME BE. 

TRADITION, in the western parts of Scotland, 
tells, that this old song (of which there are still three 
stanzas extant) once saved a covenanting clergyman 
out of a scrape. It was a little prior to the revolu- 
tion, a period when being a Scots covenanter was 
being a felon, that one of their clergy, who was at 
that very time hunted by the merciless soldiery, fell 
in, by accident, with a party of the military. The 

* The copy of this song, inserted in Johnson's Scots Musical 
Museum, contains great variations. 



soldiers were not exactly acquainted with the person 
of the reverend gentleman of whom they were in 
search ; but, from some suspicious circumstances, 
they fancied that they had got one of that cloth 
and opprobrious persuasion among them in the per- 
son of this stranger. " Mass John," to extricate 
himself, assumed a freedom of manners, very unlike 
the gloomy strictness of his sect; and among other 
convivial exhibitions, sung, (and some traditions say, 
composed on the spur of the occasion) Kirk wad let 
me be, # with such effect , that the soldiers swore he 
zvas a d d honest fellow, and that it was impos- 
sible he could belong to those hellish conventicles; 
and so gave him his liberty. 

The first stanza of this song, a little altered, is 
a favorite kind of dramatic interlude acted at coun- 
try weddings, in the south-west parts of the king- 
dom. A young fellow is dressed up like an old 
beggar; a peruke, commonly made of carded tow ? 

* I am a poor silly auld man, 
And hirpling o'er a tree, 
Zet fain, fain kiss wad I, 
Gin the kirk wad let me be. 

Gin a' my duds were aff 

And a' bale claes on, 
O I could kiss a zoung lass 

As weel as can ony man." 

VOL, II. I> 



34 



represents hoary locks; an old bonnet; a ragged 
plaid, or surtout, bound with a straw-rope for a 
girdle ; a pair of old shoes, with straw-ropes twisted 
round his ancles, as is done by shepherds in snowy 
zveather: his face they disguise as like wretched old 
age as they can : in this plight he is brought into 
the wedding-house, frequently to the astonishment of 
strangers who are not in the secret, and begins to 
sing — 

" O, I am a silly old man, 

My name it is auld Glenae, '**&,€,. 

He is asked to drink, and by and by to dance, 
which, after some uncouth excuses, he is prevailed on 
to do, the fiddler playing the tune, which here is 
commonly called " Auld Glenae ;" in short, he is all 
the time so plied with liquor that he is understood 
to get intoxicated, and with all the ridiculous ges- 
ticulations of an old drunken beggar, he dances 
and staggers until he falls on the floor; yet still in 
all his riot, nay in his rolling and tumbling on the 
floor, with some or other drunken motion of his 

* Glenae, on the small river Ae, in Annandale ; the seat and 
designation of an ancient branch, and the present representa- 
tive, of the gallant but unfortunate Dalziels of Carnwatlu — (The 
Author's note.) 



35 

body, he beats time to the music, till at last he is 
supposed to be carried out dead drunk. 



THE BLYTHSOME BRIDAL. 

I FIND the Blythsome Bridal in James Watson's 
Collection of Scots Poems, printed at Edinburgh, 
in 1706. 

This song has humour and a felicity of expres- 
sion worthy of Ramsay, with even more than his 
wonted broadness and sprightly language. The 
Witty Catalogue of Names, with their Historical 
Epithets, are done in the true Lowland Scottish 
taste of an age ago, when every householder was 
nicknamed either from some prominent part of his 
character, person, or lands and housen, which he 
rented. Thus—" Skape-fitted Rob." " Thrawn- 
mou'd Rab o' the Dubs/' " Roarin Jock i' the 
Swair." " Slaverin' Simmie o' Todshaw." " Sou- 
pie Kate o' Irongray," &c. &c. 

Fy let us all to the bridal, 

For there will be lilting there ; 

For Jockie's to be marry'd to Maggie, 
The lass wi' the gauden hair. 
d 2 



36 

And there will be lang-kail and pottage, 

And bannocks of barley-meal, 
And there will be good sawt herring, 
To relish a kog of good ale. 
Fy let us all to the bridal, 

For there will be lilting there, 
For Jockie's to be marry d to Maggie, 
The lass with the gauden hair. 

And there will be Sandie the sutor, 

And c Will' with the meikle mow ; 
And there will be Tarn the l bluter/ 

With Andrew the tinkler, I trow. 
And there will be bow-legged Robbie, 

With thumbless Katie's goodman ; 
And there will be blue-cheeked Dowbie, 

And Lawrie the laird of the land. 
Fy let us all, fyc. 

And there will be sow-libber Patie, 

And plouckie-fac'd Wat i ? the mill, 
Capper-nos'd Francie, and Gibbie, 

That wons in the how of the hill ; 
And there will be Alaster Sibbie, 

Wha in with black Bessy did mool, 
With sneevling Lillie, and Tibbie, 

The lass that stands aft on the stool. 
Fy let us all, #c. 



37 



And Madge that was buckled to Steenie, 
And coft him [grey] breeks to his arse, 

c Wha after was' hangit for stealing, 
Great mercy it happened na warse : 

And there will be gleed Geordie Janners, 
And Kirsh wi' the lily-white leg, 

Wha ' gade' to the south for manners, 

Fy let us all, fyc. 

And there will be Judan Maclawrie, 
And blinkin daft Barbra c Macleg.' 

Wi' flae-lugged, sharny-fac'd Lawrie, 
And shangy-mou'd halucket Meg. 

* The line omitted describes in a humorous but most gross 
manner a misfortune, the consequence of fashionable schooling, 
that happened to poor " Kirsh wi' the lily-white leg." The con- 
duct of this polished lady is a well-timed satire on the prevalence 
of Southern refinement over " old use and wont." The modern 
way of educating country girls is seldom attended with more 
delicate effects. Pushed into the effeminate and seductive 
scenes of a ladies' boarding-school, their rustic uncouthness is 
tinged with politer dress and politer language. They are called 
home by their parents ere the loose chaff of vulgarity be win- 
nowed from them, and are but like a statue half relieved from 
the quarry block. They are a kind of awkward, mulish non- 
descript. Their half-formed notions of refinement unfit them 
for the useful homely drudgery of a rustic life, and in their 

clumsy 



38 

And there will be happer-ars'd Nansy, 
And fairy-fac'd Flowrie be name, 

Muck Madie, and fat-hippit Lizie, 
The lass with the gauden wame. 
Fy let us all, fyc. 

And there will be girn-again Gibbie, 

With his glakit wife Jennie Bell, 
And misle-shinn'd Mungo Macapie, 

The lad that was skipper himsel. 
There lads and lasses in pearlings 

Will feast in the heart of the ha', 
On sybows, and ryfarts, and earlings, 

That are baith sodden and raw. 
Fy let us all, fyc. 

And there will be fadges and brachen, 
With fouth of good gappoks of skate, 

Pow-sodie, and drammock, and crowdie, 
And callour nout-feet in a plate ; 



clumsy attempts at gentility, they are as ridiculous as the ass 
imitating the spaniel in the fable : So that their "ganging to the 
South for manners," and " supping boarding-school brose," have be- 
come proverbial among the reflecting peasantry of Scotland, for 
laxity of morals, and Repentance-stool qualifications. — Ed. 



39 

And there will be partans and buckies, 

Speldens and why tens enew, 
And singed sheep-heads, and a haggize, 

And scadlips to sup till ye spew. 
Fy let us all, #c. 

And there will be lapper'd-milk kebbucks, 

And sowens, and farles, and baps, 
With swats, and well-scraped paunches, 

And brandie in stoups and in caps ; 
And there will be meal-kail and castocks, 

With skink to sup till ye rive ; 
And rosts to rost on a brander, 

Of flouks that were taken alive. 
Fy let us all, fyc. 

Scrapt haddocks, wilks, dilse, and tangles, 

And a mill of good snishing to prie ; 
When weary with eating and drinking, 

We'll rise up and dance till we die. 
Thenfy let us all to the bridal, 

For there will be lilting there ; 
For Jockie's to be marry d to Maggie, 

The lass with the gauden hair, 



40 



O CAN YE LABOUR LEA, YOUNG MAN. 

THIS song has long been known among the inha- 
bitants of Nithsdale and Galloway, where it is a 
great favourite. The first verse should be restored 
to its original state. 

I feed a lad at Roodsmass, 

Wi* siller pennies three ; 
When he came home at Martinmass, 

He could nae labour lea. 
O canna ye labour lea, young lad, 

O canna ye labour lea ? 
Indeed, quo' he, my hand's out — 

An' up his graith packed he. 



This old way is the truest, for the terms. Rood- 
mass is the hiring fair, and Hallowmass the first of 
the half year. 

I feed a man at Martinmass, 

Wi* airle-pennies three ; 
But a' the faute I had to him, 

He could na labor lea. 



41 

O can ye labor lea, young man, 

O can ye labor lea 9 
Gae back the gate ye came again, 

Yese never scorn me. 

O clappin's gude in Febarwar, 
An' kissins sweet in May ; 

But what signifies a young man's love 
An't dinna last for ay. 
O can ye, fyc. 

O kissin is the key o' luve, 

An' clappin is the lock, 
An' makin-of 's the best thing 

That e'er a young thing got. 
O can ye, fyc. 



48 

WHEN I UPON THY BOSOM LEAN. 
Tune— Scots Recluse. 

This song was the work of a very worthy , face- 
tious old fellow y John Lapraik, late of Dalfram, 
near Muirkirk; which little property he was obliged 
to sell in consequence of some connexion as security 
for some persons concerned in that villainous bubble, 
THE AYR BANK. He has often told me that he 
composed this song one day when his wife had been 
fretting o'er their misfortunes.* 

When I upon thy bosom lean, 
And fondly clasp thee a' my ain, 

I glory in the sacred ties 

That made us ane, wha ance were twain : 

* This is the very song " that some kind husband had addrest to 
some sweet wife" alluded to with such exquisite delicacy in 
Burns's Epistle to J. Lapraik. 

u There was ae sang amang the rest, 
Aboon them a' it pleas'd me best, 
That some kind husband had addrest 

To some sweet wife : 
It thrill'd the heart-strings thro' the breast, 

A' to the life." 



43 

A mutual flame inspires us baith, 
The tender look, the melting kiss : 

Even years shall ne'er destroy our love, 
But only gie us change o' bliss. 

Hae I a wish ? its a' for thee ; 

I ken thy wish is me to please ; 
Our moments pass sae smooth away, 

That numbers on us look and gaze, 
Weel pleas'd they see our happy days, 

Nor envy's sel finds aught to blame ; 
And ay when w r eary cares arise, 

Thy bosom still shall be my hame. 

I'll lay me there, and take my rest, 

And if that aught disturb my dear, 
I'll bid her laugh her cares away, 

And beg her not to drap a tear : 
Hae I a joy ! its a' her ain ; 

United still her heart and mine ; 
They're like the woodbine round the tree, 

That's twin'd till death shall them disjoin, 



44 

MY HARRY WAS A GALLANT GAY. 
Tune— Highlander's Lament. 

The oldest title I ever heard to this air was, 
The Highland Watch's Farewel to Ireland. The 
chorus I picked up from an old woman in Dun- 
blane; the rest of the song is mine. 

My Harry was a gallant gay, 
Fu' stately strade he on the plain; 
But now he's banish'd far away, 
I'll never see him back again. 

for him back again, 

O for him back again, 

1 wad gie a Knockhaspie 9 s land, 
For Highland Harry back again. 

When a' the lave gae to their bed, 
I wander dowie up the glen ; 
I set me down and greet my fill, 
And ay I wish him back again. 
O for him, fyc. 

O were some villains hangit high, 
And ilka body had their ain ! 



45 



Then I might see the joyfu sight, 
My Highlan' Harry back again ! 
for him, fyc. 



BEWARE O BONIE ANN-. 

I COMPOSED this song out of compliment to 
Miss Ann Masterton, the daughter of my friend^ 
Allan Masterton, the author of the air of Strath- 
allan's Lament, and tzoo or three others in this 
work. 

Ye gallants bright I red ye right, 

Beware o' bonie Ann ; 
Her comely face sae fu ? o' grace, 

Your heart she will trepan. 
Her een sae bright, like stars by night, 

Her skin is like the swan ; 
Sae jimply lac'd her genty waist, 

That sweetly ye might span. 

Youth, grace, and love, attendant move, 

And pleasure leads the van : 
In a ? their charms, and conquering arms, 

They wait on bonie Ann. 



46 

The captive bands may chain the hands, 

But love enslaves the man ; 
Ye gallants braw, I red you a', 

Beware o' bonie Ann. 



THE HIGHLAND CHARACTER. 

This tune was the composition of Gen. Reid, 
and called by him The Highland, or 42d Regi- 
ment's March. The words are by Sir Harry Ers- 
kine. 

In the garb of old Gaul, wi' the fire of old Rome, 
From the heath-cover'd mountains of Scotia we come, 
Where the Romans endeavour'd our country to gain, 
But our ancestors fought, and they fought not in vain. 
Such our love of liberty , our country, and our 

laws, 
That like our ancestors of old, we stand by 

Freedom's cause; 
We'll bravely fight like heroes bold, for honour 

and applause, 
And defy the French, with all their art 7 to 
alter our laws. 



47 



No effeminate customs our sinews unbrace, 
No luxurious tables enervate our race, 
Our loud-sounding pipe bears the true martial strain. 
So do we the old Scottish valour retain. 
Such our love, fyc. 

We're tall as the oak on the mount of the vale, 
As swift as the roe which the hound doth assail, 
As the full-moon in autumn our shields do appear, 
Minerva would dread to encounter our spear. 
Such our love, fyc. 

As a storm in the ocean when Boreas blows, 
So are we enrag'd when we rush on our foes ; 
We sons of the mountains, tremendous as rocks, 
Dash the force of our foes with our thundering 
strokes. 
. Such our love, fyc. 

Quebec and Cape Breton, the pride of old France, 
In their troops fondly boasted till we did advance ; 
But when our claymores they saw us produce, 
Their courage did fail, and they sued for a truce. 
Such our love, fyc. 

In our realm may the fury of faction long cease, 
May our councils be wise, and our commerce in- 
crease ; 



48 



And in Scotia's cold climate may each of us find, 
That our friends still prove true, and our beauties 
prove kind. 
Then well defend our liberty, our country, and 

our laws, 
And teach our late posterity to fight in Free- 
dom $ cause, 
That they like our ancestors bold, fyc. 



THE TAILOR FELL THRO THE BED, THIMBLE 



an' a\ 



This air is the march of the Corporation of 
Tailors.* The second and fourth stanzas are 
mine. 



* Probably alluding to the custom of the Incorporations of 
the Royal Boroughs, in Scotland, perambulating annually the 
boundaries of their property. — Ed. 



49 



LEADER HAIIGHS AND YARROW. 

THERE is in several collections, the old song oj 
Leader Haughs and Yarrow. It seems to have 
been the work of one of our itinerant minstrels, 
as he calls himself at the conclusion of his so?ig. 
Minstrel Burn. u 

When Phabus bright, the azure skies 

With golden rays enlight'neth, 
He makes all Nature's beauties rise, 

Herbs, trees, and flow'rs he quick'neth : 
Amongst all those he makes his choice, 

And with delight goes thorough, 
With radiant beams and silver streams 

O'er Leader- Haughs and Yarrow, 

When Aries the day and night 

In equal length divideth, 
Auld frosty Saturn takes his flight, 

Nae langer he abideth ; 
Then Flora Queen, with mantle green, 

Casts aff her former sorrow, 
And vows to dwell with Ceres sell, 

In Leader- Haughs and Yarrow. 

VOL. II. E 



50 

Pan playing on his aiten reed, 

And shepherds him attending, 
Do here resort their flocks to feed, 

The hills and haughs commending. 
With cur and kent upon the bent, 

Sing to the sun, good-morrow, 
And swear nae fields mair pleasure yields 

Than Leader- Haughs and Yarrow. 

An house there stands on Leaderside, 

Surmounting my descriving, 
With rooms sae rare, and windows fair, 

Like Dedalus 9 contriving ; 
Men passing by, do aften cry, 

In sooth it hath nae marrow ; 
It stands as sweat on Leaderside, 

As Newark does on Yarrow. 

A mile below wha lists to ride, 

They'll hear the mavis singing; 
Into St. Leonard's banks she'll bide, 

Sweet birks her head o'erhinging ; 
The lintwhite loud and Progne proud, 

With tuneful throats and narrow, 
Into St. Leonard's banks they sing 

As sweetly as in Yarrow. 



51 

The lapwing lilteth o'er the lee, 

With nimble wing she sporteth ; 
But vows she'll flee far frae the tree 

Where Philomel resorteth : 
By break of day the lark can say, 

I'll bid you a good-morrow, 
I'll streek my wing, and mounting, sing 

O'er Leader- Haughs and Yarrow. 

Park, Wanton-waws, and Wooden-cleugh, 

The East and Western Mainses, 
The wood of Lauder's fair enough, 

The corns are good in Blainshes ; 
Where aits are fine, and sold by kind, 

That if ye search all thorow 
Mearris, Buchan, Mar, nane better are 

Than Leader-Haughs and Yarrow. 

In Burmill Bog, and Whiteslade Shaws, 

The fearful hare she haunteth ; 
Brig-haugh and Braidwoodshiel she knaws, 

And Chapel-wood frequenteth ; 
Yet when she irks, to Kaidsly birks 

She rins, and sighs for sorrow, 
That she should leave sweet Leader-Haughs, 

And cannot win to Yarrow. 

e £ 



52 

What sweeter music wad ye hear, 

Than hounds and beigles crying ? 
The started hare rins hard with fear, 

Upon her speed relying : 
But yet her strength it fails at length, 

Nae bidding can she borrow 
In Sorrel's field, Cleckman, or Hags, 

And sighs to be in Yarrow. 

For Rockwood, Ringwood, Spoty, Shag, 

With sight, and scent pursue her, 
Till, ah I her pith begins to flag, 

Nae cunning can rescue her : 
O'er dub and dyke, o'er seugh and syke, 

She'll rin the fields all thorow, 
Till fail'd, she fa's in Iueader-Haughs, 

And bids farewel to Yarrow. 

Sing JErslingtoji and Cowdenknows, 

Where Homes had anes commanding ; 
And Dry grange with the milk-white ews, 

'Twixt Tweed and Leader standing ; 
The birds that flee throw Reedpath trees, 

And Gledswood banks ilk morrow, 
May chant and sing — Sweet Leader-Haughs. 

And bonny howms of Yarrow. 



53 



But Minstrel Bum cannot assuage 

His grief, while life endureth, 
To see the changes of this age. 

That fleeting time procureth : 
For mony a place stands in hard case, 

Where blyth fowk kend nae sorrow, 
With Homes that dwelt on Leaderside, 

And Scots that dwelt on Yarrow. 



WOO D AND MARRIED AND A . 

THE following is a new set, by Mrs. Scott, of 
Dunbartonshire. 

The grass had nae freedom o* growing, 

As lang as she was nae awa ; 
Nor in the town could there be stowin, 

For wooers that wanted to ca : 
Sic boxin, sic brawlin, sic dancin, 

Sic bowin and shakin a paw; 
The town was for ever in brulzies, 

But now the lassie's awa. 



54 

Woo'd and married and a\ 
Married and woo'd and awa ; 

The dandelie toast d the parish, 
She's woo'd and she's carried awa. 

But had he a ken'd her as I did, 

His wooin it wad hae been sma ; 
She kens neither bakin nor brewin, 

Nor cardin nor spinnin ava : 
But a* her skill lies in her buskin, 

And O, if her braws were awa, 
She soon wad wear out o' the fashion, 

And knit up her huggers wi' straw. 
Woo'd and married, fyc. 

But yesterday I gaed to see her, 

And O she was bonie and braw ; 
She cried on her gudeman to gie her 

An ell o' red ribban or twa : 
He took and he set down beside her 

A wheel and a reel for to ca', 
She cried, " was he that way to guide her," 

And out at the door and awa. 
Woo'd and married, fyc. 

The first road she gaed was her mither, 
Wha said, " Lassie, how gaes a' i n 






55 

Quo' she, " Was it for nae ither 

That I was married awa, 
But to be set down to a wheelie, 

An' at it for ever to ca' ? 
An syne to hae't reel'd by a chielie, 

That's everly crying to draw ?" 
Wood and married, fyc. 

Her mither said till her — " Hech ! lassie, 

He's wisest I fear o' the twa ; 
There'll be little to put in the tassie, 

Gif ye be sae backward to draw ; 
For now ye should work like a tyger, 

An' at it baith wallop and ca', 
Sae lang's ye hae youdith an' vigour, 

An' weanies and debt kept awa. 
Woo'd and married, fyc. 

" Sae, swith ! away hame to your haddin, 

The mair fool that ye e'er came awa, 
Ye manna be ilka day gaddin', 

Nor gang sae white-flnger'd and braw ; 
For now wi' a neebor ye're yokit, 

An' wi' him should cannily draw ; 
Or else ye deserve to be knockit, 

So that's an answer for a\" 
Woo'd and married, fyc. 



56 

Young luckie thus fand hersel' mither'd, 

And wish'd she had ne'er come avva ; 
At length wi' hersel' she considered 

That hameward 'twas better to draw, 
An' e'en tak her chance o' the landing, 

However that matters might fa', 
Folks mauna on freets aye be standing, 

That's woo'd and married and a\ 

Woo'd and married art a' 9 
Married an 9 woo'd an' awa, 

The dandilly toast o' the parish y 
She's zvoo'd and she's carried awa\ 



woo'd and married and a', 

Woo'd and married and a', 
Woo'd and married and a', 

Was she not very weel off, 

Was woo'd and married and a'! 

The bride came out o' the byre, 
And O as she dighted her cheeks, 

" Sirs, I'm to be married the night, 
And has nouther blanket nor sheets ; 



57 

Has nouther blankets nor sheets, 
Nor scarce a coverlet too ; 

The bride that has a' to borrow, 
Has e'en right meikle ado." 

Woo'd and married, $$Co 

Out spake the bride's father, 

As he came in frae the pleugh, 
" O had yere tongue, my daughter, 

And yese get gear enough ; 
The stirk that stands i' the tether, 

And our bra' basin'd yade, 
Will carry ye hame yere corn ; 

What wad ye be at ye jade ?" 

Woo'd and married, fyc. 

Outspake the bride's mither, 

" What deil needs a' this pride ? 
I had nae a plack in my pouch 

That night I was a bride ; 
My gown was linsy-woolsy, 

And ne'er a sark ava, 
And ye hae ribbons and buskins 

Mair than ane or twa. 

Woo'd and married, .fyc. 



5S 

« What's the matter ?" quo' Willie, 

u Tho' we be scant o' claiths, 
We'll creep the nearer thegither, 

And we'll smoor a' the fleas ; 
Simmer is coming on, 

And we'll get teats o' woo ; 
And we'll get a lass o' our ain, 

And she'll spin claiths anew/' 

Woo'd and married 7 <5fc. 

Outspake the bride's brither, 

As he came in wi' the kye, 
" Puir Willie had ne'er hae ta'en ye, 

Had he kent ye as weel as I ; 
For you're baith proud and saucy, 

And no for a puir man's wife, 
Gin I canna get a better, 

I'se never take aue i' my life," 

Woo'd and married, 8$c. 

Outspake the bride's sister, 
As she came in frae the byre, 

" O gin I were but married, 
It's a' that desire ; 



59 

But we puir folk maun live single, 

And do the best we can ; 
I dinna care what I should want, 

If I could but get a man/' 

Wood and married and a% 
Woo'd and married and a\ 

Was she not 'very weel aff, 
Was woo'd and married a'. 



MUIKLAND WILLIE. 

This lightsome ballad gives a particular draw- 
ing of those ruthless times " whan thieves were rife/* 
and the lads went a wooing in their warlike habili- 
ments, not knowing whether they would tilt with lips 
or lances. Willie's durk and pistols were buckled 
on for this uncertain encounter , and not for gar- 
nishing and adorning his person.* 

* Though such iron-mitten'd handling now looks rude and 
familiar to the fashionable eye, yet we may deem ourselves the 
descendants of such lusty lovers ; and that our great great grand- 
mothers were touzled by fingers perhaps as rude as the sheep- 
smearing hands of good Muirland Willie. The worthy old cot- 
tar* 



60 



MUIRLAND WILLIE. 



Hearken, and I will tell you how 
Young Muirland Willie came to woo, 
Tho' he could neither say nor do ; 

The truth I tell to you. 
But ay he crys, whate'er betide, 
Maggy, Fse ha'e her to be my bride, 

With afal, dal, fyc. 



tars gloried in seeing a well-dressed wooer, half smothered in 
cloth of home manufacture. 

Such were the ideas of a blythe old soul who lived at the Isle, 
in the holms of Nithsdale, when a weaver lad had stilted the 
Nith, to court his daughter.— " He's weel arrayed, hear ye me, 
dame; he's weel arrayed — he has twa tap coats, and a plaid 
on!" 

Such a dowry as Willie's bride got was a dowry of some value 
in those moneyless times. Here is a fragment of a curious 
marriage portion which was bestowed on a Nithsdale bride 
about a century ago. 

" Twa rigs o' run rig land — twa kye, wi' sax Ewes and 
u their lambs, auld stock o' Tinwald. A tumbler car* — a 
" single naig harrow, wi' iron fore teeth — a Plow, wi' a' 
a its graithings — Twa coils o' hair tether, wi' twa widdie 
te Creels, and * * * *. By and attour sixty merks for 
" House plenishing — The calfskin covered Bible, black 
u prent o' the Persecution !" 1728, or 9. 

* A sledge, or hurdle, with two small wheels, drawn by a single horse-, useo^ 
in those mountainous parts of the country where carts cannot pass. 



61 



On his gray yade as he did ride^ 
With durk and pistol by his side, 
He prick'd her on wi' meikle pride, 

Wi' meikle mirth and glee. 
Out o'er yon moss, out o'er yon muir, 
Till he came to her dady's door, 

With afal, dal 9 fyc. 

Goodman, quoth he, be ye within, 
I'm come your doghter's love to win, 
I care no for making meikle din ; 

What answer gi' ye me ? 
Now, wooer, quoth he, wou'd ye light down, 
111 gie ye my doghter's love to win, 

With afaly dal, fyc. 

Now, wooer, sin ye are lighted down, 
Where do ye win, or in what town ? 
I think my doghter winna gloom 

On sic a lad as ye. 
The wooer he step'd up the house, 
And wow ! but he was wond'rous crouse, 

With afal, dal, fyc. 

I have three owsen in a plough, 
Twa good ga'en yads, and gear enough, 
The place they ca ? it Cadeneugh; 
I scorn to tell a lie : 



62 

Besides, I had frae the great laird, 
A peat-pat, and a lang kail-yard, 
With afal, dal, fyc. 

The maid put on her kirtle brown, 
She was the brawest in a* the town ; 
I wat on him she did na gloom, 

But blinkit bonnilie. 
The lover he stended up in haste, 
And gript her hard about the waste, 

With afal, dal, fyc. 

To win your love, maid, Fm come here, 
I'm young, and hae enough o' gear ; 
And for my sell you need na fear, 

Troth try me -whan ye like. 
He took aff his bonnet, and spat in his chew, 
He dighted his gab, and he pri'd her mou', 

With afaly dal, fyc. 

The maiden blusht and bing'd fu' law, 
She had na will to say him na, 
But to her dady she left it a' 

As they twa cou'd agree. 
The lover he gae her the tither kiss, 
Syne ran to her dady, and tell'd him this, 

With afal, dal, fyc. 



63 



Your doghter wad na say me na, 
But to your sell she has left it a', 
As we cou'd gree between us twa ; 
Say what'U ye gi' me wi' her ? 
Now, wooer, quo' he, I ha'e na meikle, 
But sic's I ha'e ye's get a pickle, 

With afal, dal, #c. 

A kilnfu of corn I'll gi'e to thee, 
Three soums of sheep, twa good milk ky, 
Ye's ha'e the wadding dinner free ; 

Troth I dow* do na mair. 
Content, quo' he, a bargain be't, 
I'm far frae hame, make haste let's do't, 

With afal, dal, fyc. 

The bridal day it came to pass, 
Wi' mony a blythsome lad and lass ; 
But sicken a day there never was, 

Sic mirth was never seen. 
This winsome couple straked hands. 
Mess John ty'd up the marriage bands, 

With afal) dal, fyc. 

And our bride's maidens were na few, 
Wi' tap-knots, lug-knots, a' in blew, 
Frae tap to tae they were braw new, 
And blinkit bonnilie. 



64 



Their toys and mutches were sae clean, 
They glanced in our ladses' een, 
With afaly dal> #c. 

Sic hirdum, dirdum, and sic din, 
Wi' he o'er her, and she o'er him ; 
The minstrels they did never blin, 
Wi' meikle mirth and glee. 



With afaly dal, fyc. 



THE SMILING PLAINS. 

THESE elegant lines were written by poor Fal- 
coner,* the author of The Shipwreck. 

The smiling plains profusely gay, 
Are dress'd in all the pride of May ; 
The birds on ev'ry spray above 
To rapture wake the vocal grove. 

* Of Falconer, Burns writes to Mrs. Dunlop, in the following 
exquisite strain of tenderness. " Falconer, the unfortunate 

author 



65 



But ah ! Miranda, without thee, 
Nor spring nor summer smiles on me, 
All lonely in the secret shade, 

I mourn thy absence, charming maid! 



author of the Shipwreck, that glorious Poem, is no more. After 
weathering that dreadful catastrophe he so feelingly describes in 
his Poem, aud after weathering many hard gales of fortune, he 
went to the bottom with the Aurora frigate! I forget what 
part of Scotland had the honor of giving him birth; but he was 
the son of obscurity and misfortune. He was one of those 
daring adventurous spirits which old Caledonia, beyond any 
other nation, is remarkable for producing. Little does the fond 
mother think, as she haugs delighted over the sweet little leech 
at her bosom, where the poor fellow may hereafter wander, and 
what may be his fate. I remember a stanza in an old Scots 
ballad which, notwithstanding its rude simplicity, speaks feel- 
ingly to the heart — 

Little did my mother think, 

That day she cradled me, 
What land I was to travel in, 

Or what death I should die ! 

In addition to these remarks it will be proper to add, that 
William Falconer was born in Edinburgh about the year 1730, 
where his father was a barber. William, at a very early age, 
went on board a Leith merchantman, in which he served an ap» 
prenticeship. In 1769 we find him purser of the Aurora frigate. 
This vessel sailed for India the same year, and was never more 

heard 
VOL. II. ? 



66 

O soft as love ! as honour fair [ 
Serenely sweet as vernal air ! 
Come to my arms ; for you alone 

Can all my absence past atone. 
O come ! and to my bleeding heart 
The sov'reign balm of love impart ; 
Thy presence lasting joy shall bring, 

And give the year eternal spring. 



heard of. Various reports have arisen respecting the fate of the 
Aurora, which was last heard of at the Cape of Good Hope in 
December 1769 j but the prevalent opinion is, that she took fire 
at sea in the night-time, and blew up. In his person, Falconer 
was of the middle size, sparely made, and with a dark weather- 
beaten countenance, marked by the small-pox. No remains of 
the family are now known to exist in Edinburgh. A sister, who 
was supposed to be the last surviving, died within these few 
years in a workhouse there. 

Edinburgh Ed, of the Shipwreck, 1807. 



67 



THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. 

J SUCCESSFUL imitation of an old song is really 
attended zoith less difficulty than to convince a block- 
head that one of these jeu d'esprits is a forgery. 
This fine ballad is even a more palpable imitation 
than Hardiknute. The manners indeed are old, but 
the language is of yesterday. Its author must very 
soon be discovered.* 

I've heard a lilting^ 
At the ewes milking, 

* This remark is strikingly correct. These stanzas were writ- 
ten by a lady of family, in .Roxburghshire. (Vide " Minstrelsy 
of the Scottish Border, vol. iii. p. 125.) They are founded on 
the battle of Flodden, fought on the borders, in 1513, in which 
King James the fourth of Scotland was slain, and the flower of 
his Nobility destroyed, with a great slaughter of all ranks, by 
the English army, under the command of the Earl of Surry. 

The* subjoined illustrations of provincial terms are given from 
"The Bee," published in 1791, vol. i. p. 24. The English 
reader will find them very useful, and their accuracy may be 
Telied on. 

t A lilting, a cheerful kind of singing, alluding to a custom 
in Scotland, practised on all occasions where country people, 
especially women, are engaged in any kind of employment, the 
time of the song being a common measure to all their opera- 
tions, 

? 2 



6S 



Lasses a' lilting before the break o' day, 

But now I hear moaning 

On ilka green loaning,* 

Since our brave forrestersf are a' wed away. 

At buchtsj in the morning 
Nae blythe lads are scorning ; § 
The lasses are lonely, dowie and wae: 
Nae daffin, nae gabbing, 
But sighing and sabbing, 
Ilk ane lifts her leglin,|| and hies her away. 

At e'en in the gloming 
Nae swankies ## are roaming, 



* Loaning, an opening between fields of corn, left unculti* 
vated for the sake of driving cattle to the homestead from the 
distant parts of the farm. 

t Forresters, a general name, poetically here assumed for the 
men of the country. 

$ Buchts, a small pen, usually put up in the corner of the 
sheep-fold into which the ewes were driven when they were to 
be milked. 

§ Scorning is almost exclusively applied among the country 
people, to denote that kind of merriment occasioned by teasing 
a young girl about her lover. 

j| Leglin, a kind of bucket, with one of the staves projecting 
above the rest as a handle. 

** Swmkies, a cant term for young lads, half-grown men. 



r>9 

? Mang stacks with the lasses at bogle to play •* 

For ilk ane sits drearie, 

Lamenting her dearie, 

The flow'rs o' the forest wh' are a' wed away. 

In har'st at the shearing, 
Nae blythe lads are jeering, 
The Banstersf are lyart, J and runkled, and grey ; 
At fairs nor at preaching, 
Nae wooing, nae fleeching,§ 
Since our bra foresters are a' wed away. 

* The diversion here alluded to is still a common amusement 
among young people in Scotland, and is called bogle about the 
stacks. To understand it, let the English reader be informed, 
that there it is customary to put up the corns in round ricks, 
called stacks, close together in a yard adjoining to the barn. 
The diversion consists in one person hunting several others 
among these stacks, and usually consists of as numerous a party 
as can be easily collected together. It is chiefly confined to 
very young boys and girls, for very obvious reasons, near towns ; 
but in the country, it affords sometimes a very innocent and 
attractive amusement for the youth of both sexes, when farther 
advanced in life. 

t Bansters, Bandsters, i. e. Binders, men who bind up the 
sheaves behind the reapers. 

$ Lyart, a term appropriated to denote a peculiarity which is 
often seen to affect aged persons, when some of the locks be- 
come grey sooner than others. Where the mixture of black and 
white hairs is pretty uniform, the hair is said to be grey. 

% Fleeching means nearly the same thing with coaxing ; pro- 
perly 



70 

O dule for the order ! 
Sent our lads to the border ! 
The English for anes, by guile wan the day: 
The flow'rs of the forest 
Wha aye shone the foremost, 
The prime of the land lie cauld in the clay. # 



perly, it is a kind of earnestly intreating, with a desire to gain 
any one over to the purpose wanted, by artfully drawing them 
to form a good opinion of the fleecher. Fairs and public preach- 
ings in the fields, at that time beginning to be common in Scot- 
land, were places of public resort, at which young persons of 
both sexes had occasion to meet : and as these were often at a 
great distance from home, it gave the young men opportunities 
of performing obliging offices of gallantry to their mistresses, 
which was, no doubt, one cause of their being so well attended : 
They were as the balls and assemblies of the country belles and 
beaux. 

* The last verse is a natural national apology for the defeat. 
The expression in the first line is common in Scotland, Dule 
(proh dolor !) signifies grief or sorrow, as if it were said, Alas % 
for the order ! 



71 



THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST, 

PART SECOND. 

I've seen the smiling of fortune beguiling, 
I've tasted her favours, and felt her decay ; 

Sweet is her blessing, and kind her caressing, 
But soon it is fled — it is fled far away. 

I've seen the forest adorned of the foremost, 

With flowers of the fairest, both pleasant and gay : 

Full sweet was their blooming, their scent the air 
perfuming, 
But now they are withered, and a' wede awae. 

I've seen the morning, with gold the hills adorning, 

And the red storm roaring, before the parting day; 
I've seen Tweed's silver streams, glittering in the 
sunny beams, 
Turn drumly # and dark, as they rolled on their 
way. 

* Drumly, discoloured. 



72 

O fickle fortune ! why this cruel sporting ? 

Why thus perplex us poor sons of a day I 
Thy frowns cannot fear me, thy smiles cannot cheer 
me, 

Since the flowers of the forest are a' wede awae.* 



* These verses, u adapted to the ancient air of the Flowers of 
(he Forest, are, like the Elegy which precedes them) the pro- 
duction of a lady. The late Mrs. Cockbum, daughter of Ru- 
therford of Fairnalie, in Selkirkshire, and relict of Mr. Cock- 
burn of Ormiston, was the authoress. Mrs. Cockburn has been 
dead but a few years. Even at an age, advanced beyond the 
usual bounds of humanity, she retained a play of imagination, 
and an activity of intellect, which was almost preternatural at 
her period of life. Her active benevolence, keeping pace with 
her genius, rendered her equally an object of love and ad- 
miration." 

Border Minstrelsy, vol. iii. p, 130. 



73 

TIBBIE DUNBAR. 

Tune — Johnny M'Gill. 

This tune is said to be the composition of John 
M'Gill, fiddler, in Girvan. He called it after his 
own name. 

O, wilt thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar ; 

O, wilt thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar ; 
Wilt thou ride on a horse, or be drawn in a car, 

Or walk by my side, O sweet Tibbie Dunbar? 

Icarena thy daddie, his lands and his money, 
I carena thy kin, sae high and sae lordly : 

But say thou wilt hae me for better for waur, 
And, come in thy coatie, sweet Tibbie Dunbar! 



GILL MORICE.* 



This plaintive ballad ought to have been called 
Child Maurice, and not Gill Morice. In its pre- 

* Gray, in one of his letters, thus remarks on Child Maurice : 
" I have got the old Scotch ballad on which Douglas was found- 
ed; 



74 

sent dress, it has gained immortal honor from Mr. 
Home's taking from it the ground-work of his fine 
tragedy of Douglas. But I am of opinion that the 
present ballad is a modern composition; perhaps not 
much above the age of the middle of the last cen- 
tury; at least I should be glad to see or hear of a 
copy of the present words prior to 1650. That it 
was taken from an old ballad, called Child Maurice, 
now lost, I am inclined to believe; but the present 
one may be classed with Hardyknute, Kenneth, 
Duncan, the Laird of Woodhouselie, Lord Living- 
ston, The Death of Monteith, and many other mo- 
dern productions, which have been swallowed by 
many readers, as antient fragments of old poems. 
This beautiful plaintive tune was composed by Mr. 
M' Gibbon, the selector of a collection of Scots 
tunes. JR. R. 



ed -, it is divine, and as long as from hence (Cambridge) to Aston. 
Have you never seen it? Aristotle's best rules are observed in 
it, in a manner that shews the author had never read Aristotle. 
It begins in the fifth act of the play : you may read it two-thirds 
through without guessing what it is about : and yet, when you 
eome to the end, it is impossible not to understand the whole 
story. I send you the two first stanzas." 



75 

In addition to the observations on Gill Morris, I 
add, that of the songs which Capt. Riddel mentions , 
Kenneth and Duncan are juvenile compositions of 
Mr. Mackenzie, The Man of Feeling. — Mackenzie's 
father shewed them in MS. to Dr. Blacklock, as the 
productions of his son, from which the Doctor 
rightly prognosticated that the young poet would 
make in his more advanced years } a respectable 
figure in the world of letters. 

This I had from Blacklock. 

DUNCAN. 

Saw ye the thane o' meikle pride, 

Red anger in his ee ? 
I saw him not, nor care, he cry'd, 

Red anger frights na me. 

For I have stude whar honour bad, 
Though death trod on his heel ; 

Mean is the crest that stoops to fear, 
Nae sic may Duncan feeh 

Hark ! hark ! or was it but the wind, 
That through the ha' did sing ; 

Hark ! hark ! agen, a warlike sound, 
The black woods round do ring. 



76 

Tis na for naught, bauld Duncan cry'd, 

Sic shoutings on the wind : 
Syne up he started frae his seat, 

A thrang of spears behind. 

Haste, haste, my valiant hearts, he said, 

Anes mair to follow me ; 
We'll meet yon shouters by the burn, 

I guess wha they may be. 

But wha is he that speids fae fast, 
Frae the slaw marching thrang ? 

Sae frae the mirk cloud shoots a beam, 
The sky's blue face alang. 

Some messenger it is, mayhap, 

Then not at peace I trow. 
My master, Duncan, bade me rin, 

And say these words to you : 

Restore again that blooming rose, 
Your rude hand pluckt awa' ; 

Restore again his Mary fair, 
Or you shall rue his fa'. 

Three strides the gallant Duncan tuik, 
He struck his forward spear : 

Gae tell thy master, beardless youth, 
We are nae wont to fear. 



He comes na on a wassail rout, 

Of revel, sport, and play ; 
Our swords gart Fame proclaim us men, 

Lang ere this riiefu' day. 

The rose I pluckt o' right is mine. 

Our hearts together grew, 
Like twa sweet roses on ae stak, 

Frae hate to love she flew. 

Swift as a winged shaft he sped ; 

Bald Duncan said in jeer, 
Gae tell thy master, beardless youth. 

We are nae w T ont to fear. 

He comes na on a wassail rout, 

Of revels, sport, and play ; 
Our swords gart Fame proclaim us men, 

Lang ere this ruefu' day. 

The rose I pluckt o ? right is mine, 

Our hearts together grew ; 
Like twa sweet roses on ae stak, 

Frae hate to love they flew. 

He stampt his foot upo' the ground, 

And thus in wrath did say, 
God strike my saul, if frae this field, 

We baith in life shall gae ! 



78 

He wav'd his hand : the pipers play'd, 
The targets clattered round ; 

And now between the meeting faes 
Was little space of ground. 

But wha is she that rins sae fast ? 

Her feet nae stap they find ; 
Sae swiftly rides the milky cloud, 

Upo' the simmer's wind. 

Her face a mantle screened afore, 

She show'd of lily hue ; 
Sae frae the grey mist breaks the sun, 

To drink the morning dew. 



Li & 



Alack ! my friends, what sight is this f 
O, stap your rage ! she cry'd, 

Whar love with honey 'd lips should be, 
Mak not a breach so wide. 

Can then my uncle draw his sword, 
My husband's breast to bleed ? 

Or can my sweet Lord do to him 
Sic foul and ruthless deed ? 

Bethink you, uncle, of the time, 

My gray-hair'd father died, 
Frae whar your shrill horn shuck the wood, 

He sent for you with speed. 



79 

My brother, guard my bairn, he said, 

She'll hae nae father soon, 
Regard her, Donald, as your ain, 

I'll ask nae other boon. 

Would then my uncle force my love, 

Whar love it coudna be ? 
Or wed me to the man I hate ? 

Was this his care of me ? 

Can these brave men, who but of late 

Together chas'd the deer, 
Against their comrades bend their bows, 

In bluidy hunting here ? 

She spake, while trickling ran the tear 

Her blushing cheek alang ; 
And silence, like a heavy cloud, 

O'er a' the warriors hang. 

Syne stapt the red-hair'd Malcolm iiirth, 
Three-score his years and three ; 

Yet a' the strength of youngest youth, 
In sic an eild had he. 

Nae pity was there in his breast, 

For war alane he loo'd ; 
His grey een spurkled at the sights 

Of plunder, death, and bluid. 



80 

What ! shall our hearts of steel, he said, 

Bend to a woman's sang ? 
Or can her words our honour quit, 

For sic dishonest wrang ? 

For this did a' these warriors come, 

To hear an idle tale ? 
And o'er our death-accustomed arms 

Shall silly tears prevail ? 

They gied a shout, their bows they tuik, 
They clash'd their steely swords ; 

Like the loud waves of Barra's shore, 
There was nae room for words. 



A cry the weeping Mary gied, 

O uncle hear my prayer ; 
Heidna that man of bluidy look. — 

She had na time for mair. 

For in the midst anon there came, 

A blind unweeting dart, 
That glanc'd frae aff her Duncan's targe, 

And strack her to the heart. 



81 

Awhile she staggar'd, syne she fell, 
And Duncan see'd her fa' ; 

Around he stood, for in his limbs 
There was nae power at a'. 

The spear he meant at faes to fling, 
Stood fix'd within his hand ; 

His lips half open, cou'dna speak, 
His life was at a stand. 

Sae the black stump of some auld aik 2 

With arms in triumph dight, 
Seems to the traveller like a man, 



VOL. II. 



82 



KENNETH. 



I weird, I weird, hard-hearted lord, 

Thy fa' shall soon be seen ; 
Proud was the lily of the morn, 

The cald frost nipt or een : 

Thou leughst in scorn when puir men weep'd, 

And strack the lowly down ; 
Sae sail nae widow weep for thine, 

When 2l their joys are flown. 

This night ye drink the sparkly wine ; 

I redd you drink your fill ; 
The morrow's sun shall drink your bluid, 

Afore he reach the hill. 

I see the snaw-maned horses ride, 
Their glitt'ring swords they draw ; 

Their swords that shall nae glitter lang, 
Till Kenneth's pride shall fa\ 

The black Dog youTd ; he saw the sight 
Nae man but I could see ; 



83 

High* on fair Marg'ret's breast her sheet, 
And deadly hYd her ee : 

Sae spake the seer ; wild in his een 

His frighted spirit gaz'd : 
Pale were his cheeks, and stiff his hair 

Like boary bristles rais'd. 

Loud, loud in Kenneth's lighted ha', 

The sang of joy was heard ; 
And mony a cup they fill'd again, 

Afore the light appear 'd. 

u War my son William now, but here, 

He wad na fail the pledge" 

Wi' that in at the door there ran 

A ghousty-looking page. 

" I saw them, Master, O ! I saw, 

Beneath the thorney brae, 
Of black-maiFd warriors mony a rank ; 

Revenge ! he cried, and gae." 

* To persons unacquainted with the superstition of the High= 
lands, this may not be easily intelligible. There the seer is 
supposed to behold the figure of a person about to die, clothed 
in their winding-sheet ; and the higher it is on their bodies, the 
nearer their approaching dissolution. 



154 

The youth that bare Lord Kenneth's cup, 

The saft smile on his cheek, 
Frae his white hand let fa' the drink, 

Nor did the baldest speak. 

Sae have I seen the gray-wing'd shaft 

That strak the noblest deer ; 
Astounded, gaz'd the trembling herd, 

Nor could they flee for fear. 

16 Ride, ride, and bid Lord William come ; 

His fathers sair beset." 

" It was Lord William's horse that neigh'd; 

I heard them bar the yate." 

H Welcome, my valiant son," he said ; 

Or should I welcome say, 
In sic an ill hour, when you come 

To meet thy father's fae ?" 

" Curs'd be that thought," bald William said; 

" My fathers faes are mine ; 
Lang has my breast frae Kenneth learn'd 

Sic baby fear to tine." 

" O William ! had we kent yestreen." 

€€ Father, we ken it now ; 
Let women tell what women wish." 

Syne three shrill blasts he blew. 



85 

Fair Marg'ret lay on downy bed ; 

Yet was na sound her rest ; 
She waken'd wi' Lord William's horn, 

And down she came in haste. 

66 What mean you, Kenneth, by that blast? 

I wish my dreams bode guid ; 
Upon a bed of lilies fair 

I thought there rain'd red bluid. 

My son ! my son ! may peace be there 
Whar noble William stands." — — 

u We are the lilies/' answer'd he, 
May their bluid weit our hands." 

" What means my William by sic words ? 

W T hase bluid would William spill ? 
I thought that horn had blawn in peace, 

That wak'd the night sae still." 



■r l 



She luik'd ; but nane durst answer make, 

Till gallant William said, 
" Aft has my mother bade us joy, 

When we to battail gade. 

Again thy hands may work the plaid 
For him that fought the best ; 

Again may I hing up my targe 
Upon the pin to rest. 



86 

But William never liv'd to flee ; 

Nor did his mother hear 
A warrior cry on William's name, 

That was na found for fear. 

And if we fa', my gallant friends, 

We shall na fa' alane ; 
Some honest hand shall write our deeds 

Upon the tallest stane." 

" Haste, Kenneth, haste ; for in the field 

The fire-ey'd Walter rides ; 
His men, that come sae thrang wi' haste, 

For slaw delay he chides." 

" By Mary, we will meet him there," 

The angry William cry'd ; 
Thy son will try this Lion-fae, 

And you with Margaret bide." 

u No, on my faith, the sword of youth 

Thy father yet can wield ; 
If that I shrink frae fiercest faes, 
May babies mock my eild." 

Then forth they rush'd, afore the yate 

The warriours sallied out : 
Lord William smil'd upon their ranks : 

They answer'd wi' a shout. 



87 

" Gae rin, and say to Walter thus : 
What seek thae warriours here! 

Or why the din of fiery war 
Astounds the peaceful ea,r ?" 

Swift ran the page. " Thus Kenneth says, 
What seik thae warriours here ? 

Or why the din of fiery war 
Astounds the peaceful ear .?" 

" Gae tell thy master, frae this arm 

Mine answer will I gi'e ; 
Remind him of his tyrant deeds, 

And bid him answer me. 

Wha was't that slew my father dear? 

That bar'd my castle wa' ? 
Wha was't that bade wild ruin bruid 

Whar pipes did glad the ha' ?" 

Nor half way had the message sped, 
When their tough bows they drew : 

But far attour the warriors heads 
The shafts for anger flew. 



"S^ 



" Sae ever shute Lord Kenneth's faes," 

The valiant William said ; 
Wi' this I war nae wi' the wind," 

And drew his glittering blade* 



88 

Below the arrows' arch they rush'd 

Wi' mony a shout, sae fast : 
Beneath the rainbow the big clouds 

Sae drives the roaring blast. 

Bald Walter sprang frae aff his steid, 

And drave him o'er the lee ; 
" Curs'd be the name of that base cow'rd 

That could but think to flee." 

Firmly he set his manly foot, 

And firm his targe he bare ; 
Never may Walter greet his friends, 

If Kenneth's see him mair. 



Multa desunt. 

Fair Margaret wi' her maidens sat 

Within the painted wa' ; 
She started at ilk breath of wind 

That whistled through the ha'. 

" Wha was't that gi'd yon cry below ?- 
Say, page, does ill betide?" 

Kenneth and William baith are slain ; 
Mak haste, tnak haste and ride," 



89 



Her maidens scriech'd : but any speech, 

Nor wail of wae, had she ; 
She bow'd her head, and sair she sigh'd, 

And cald Death clos'd her e'e. 



THIS IS NO MINE AIN HOUSE. 

THE first half stanza is old, the rest is Ramsay's, 
The old words are — 

O this is no mine ain house, 

My ain house, my ain house ; 
This is no mine ain house, 

I ken by the biggin o't. 

There's bread and cheese are my door-cheeks 
Are my door-cheeks, are my door-cheeks ; 

There's bread and cheese are my door-cheeks ; 
And pan-cakes the riggin o't. 

This is no my ain wean, 

My ain wean, my ain wean ; 
This is no my ain ween, 

I ken by the greetie o't. 



90 

I'll tak the curchie aff my head, 

Aff my head, aff my head ; 
I'll tak the curchie aff my head, 

And row't about the feetie o't. 

The tune is an old Highland air, called Shuan 
iruish willighan. 



LADDIE, LIE NEAR ME, 

THIS song is by Blacklock. 



THE GARDENER Wl' HIS PAIDLE. # 

THIS air is the Gardeners' March. The title oj 
the song only is old; the rest is mine. 

When rosy May comes in wi' flowers, 

To deck her gay, green-spreading bowers; 

Then busy, busy are his hours, 
The gard'ner wi' his paidle. 

* This is the original of the song that appears in Dr. Currie's 
ed. vol. iv. p. 103; it is there called Dainty Davie. 



91 

The chrystal waters gently fa' ; 
The merry birds are lovers a' ; 
The scented breezes round him blaw, 
The gard'ner wi' his paidle. 

When purple morning starts the hare 
To steal upon her early fare ; 
Then thro' the dews he maun repair, 
The gard'ner wi' his paidle. 

When day expiring in the west, 
The curtain draws of nature's rest; 
He flies to her arms he lo'es best. 
The gard'ner wi' his paidle. 



THE DAY RETURNS, MY BOSOM BURNS. 

Tune— Seventh of November. 

I COMPOSED this song out of compliment to one 
of the happiest and zoorthiest married couples in the 
world, Robert Riddel, Esq. of Glenriddel, and his 
lady^ At their fire-side I have enjoyed more plea- 

* When the Editor visited Friar's Carse Hermitage (on the 
late Mr. Riddell's estate) so much celebrated by Burns, he was 

greatly 



92 

sant evenings than at all the houses of fashionable 
people in this country put together; and to their 
kindness and hospitality I am indebted for many of 
the happiest hours of my life. 

The day returns, my bosom burns, 

The blissful day we twa did meet, 
Tho' winter wild in tempest toil'd, 

Ne'er summer sun was half sae sweet. 
Than a' the pride that loads the tide, 

And crosses o'er the sultry line ; 
Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes, 

Heav'n gave me more, it made me thine. 



greatly shocked to find this little spot, that ought to have been 
held sacred, almost gone to decay. The pane of glass on which 
the Poet had written his well-known " Lines'' was removed ; 
the floor was covered with straw ; the door thrown open ; and 
the trees that had been planted at the entrance to this interesting 
place, were broken down and destroyed by cattle. 

Such was the late proprietor, Capt. Smith's neglect of a spot 
on the window of which Robert Burns had traced, with his 
own hand (which still remains), this tender tribute to the me- 
mory of a departed Friend. 

" To Riddell, much lamented man ! 
This ivied cot was dear 5 
Wanderer, dost value matchless worth? 
This ivied cot revere !" 

How 



93 

While day and night can bring delight, 

Or nature aught of pleasure give ; 
While joys above, my mind can move, 

For thee, and thee alone, I live ! 
When that grim foe of life below, 

Comes in between to make us part, 
The iron hand that breaks our band, 

It breaks my bliss — it breaks my heart ! 



How different the reverence of a poor old woman cottager, 
living in a wretched hut, in the immediate neighbourhood of 
Ellisland. On being asked if she kenn'd Burns? " Kend him! 
Aye did I ! He was a graat man for pomms, and makin o' beuks, 
an' the like o' that ; but he's deed now, puir mm /" 



94 



THE GABERLUNZIE-MAN.* 

The Gaberlunzie-Man is supposed to commemo- 
rate an intrigue of James the Vth. Mr. Callander 
of Craigforth, published some years ago, an edition 
of Christ's Kirk on the Green, and the Gaberlunzie- 
Man, with notes critical and historical. James the 
Vth is said to have been fond of Gosford, in Aber- 
lady Parish, and that it was suspected by his cotem- 
poraries, that in his frequent excursions to that part 
of the country he had other purposes in view besides 
golfing and archery. Three favourite ladies, San- 
dilands, Weir, and Oliphant; (one of them resided 
at Gosford, and the others in the neighbourhood,) 
were occasionally visited by their royal and gallant 
admirer, which gave rise to the following satirical 
advice to his Majesty, from Sir David Lindsay, of 
the Mount, Lord Lyon.f 

Sow not your seed on Sandylands, 
Spend not your strength in Weir, 
And ride not on an Elephant, 
For spoiling o' your gear. 

* A wallet-man or tinker, who appears to have been formerly 
a jack-of-all-trades. 

t Sir David was Lion King-aUArms, under James V. 



95 



The pawky auld carle came o'er the lee, 
Wi' many good e'ens and days to me, 
Saying, Goodwife, for your courtesie > 

Will ye lodge a silly poor man ! 
The night was cauld, the carle was wat, 
And down ayont the ingle he sat 3 
My daughter's shoulders he 'gan to clap, 

And cadgily ranted and sang. 

O wow ! quo' he, were I as free, 
As first when I saw this country, 
How blyth and merry wad I be ! 

And I wad never think lang. 
He grew canty, and she grew fain ; 
But little did her auld minny ken 
What thir slee twa togither were say'n, 

When wooing they were sae thrang. 

And O ! quo' he, ann ye were as black 
As e'er the crown of my dady's hat, 
'Tis I wad lay thee by my back, 

And awa' wi' me thou shou'd gang* 
And O ! quo' she, ann I were as white, 
As e'er the snaw lay on the dike, 
I'd dead me braw, and lady like, 

And awa' with thee I'd gang. 



96 

Between the twa was made a plot ; 
They raise awee before the cock, 
And wilily they shot the lock, 

And fast to the bent are they gane. 
Up the morn the auld wife raise, 
And at her leisure pat on her claise ; 
Syne to the servant's bed she gaes, 

To speer for the silly poor man. 

She gaed to the bed where the beggar lay, 
The strae was cauld, he was away, 
She clapt her hand, cry'd Waladay, 

For some of our gear will be gane. 
Some ran to coffers, and some to kists, 
But nought was stown that cou'd be mist, 
She danc'd her lane, cry'd, Praise be blest, 

I have lodg'd a leal poor man. 

Since nathing's awa', as we can learn, 

The kirn's to kirn, and milk to earn, 

Gae butt the house, lass, and waken my bairn, 

And bid her come quickly ben. 
The servant gade where the daughter lay, 
The sheets was cauld, she was away, 
And fast to her goodwife gan say, 

She's aff with the Gaberlunzie-man. 



97 

O fy gar ride, and fy gar rin, 

And haste ye find these traytors again ; 

For she's be burnt, and he's be slain, 

The wearifu' Gaberlunzie-man. 
Some rade upo' horse, some ran a fit, 
The wife was wood, and out o' her wit : 
She cou'd na gang, nor yet cou'd she sit, 

But ay she curs'd and she ban'd. 

Mean time far hind out o'er the lea, 
Fu' snug in a glen, where nane cou'd see, 
The twa, with kindly sport and glee, 

Cut frae a new cheese a whang : 
The priving was good, it pleas'd them baith, 
To lo'e her for ay, he gae her his aith : 
Quo' she, to leave thee I will be laith, 

My winsome Gaberlunzie-man. 

O kend my minny I w 7 ere wi' you, 
Illsardly wad she crook her mou, 
Sic a poor man she'd never trow, 

After the Gaberlunzie-man. 
My dear, quo 5 he, ye're yet o'er young. 
And ha' na lear'd the beggar's tongue, 
To follow me frae town to town, 

And carry the Gaberlunzie on. 

VOL. II, H 



98 

Wi' cauk and keel I'll win your bread, 

And spindles and whorles for them wha need, 

Whilk is a gentle trade indeed, 

To carry the Gaberlunzie — O. 
I'll bow my leg, and crook my knee, 
And draw a black clout o'er my eye, 
A cripple or blind they will ca' me, 

While we shall be merry and sing. 



MY BONNIE MARY. 

THIS air is Oswald's; the first half -stanza of the 
song is old, the rest mine. # 

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, 

An' fill it in a silver tassie ; 
That I may drink before I go, 

A service to my bonnie lassie ; 
The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith ; 

Fu ? loud the wind blaws frae the ferry ; 

* This song, which Burns here acknowledges to be his own, 
was first introduced by him in a letter to Mrs, Dunlop, as two 
old stanzas. 



99 

The ship rides by the Berwick-law, 
And I maun lea'e my bonnie Mary. 

The trumpets sound, the banners fly, 

The glittering spears are ranked ready ; 
The shouts o' war are heard afar, 

The battle closes thick and bloody ; 
But it's not the roar o' sea or shore 

Wad make me langer wish to tarry ; 
Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar, 

It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary, 



THE BLACK EAGLE. 



THIS song is by Dr. Fordyce, whose merits as a 
prose writer are well known. 



JAMIE COME TRY ME. 

THIS air is Oswald's; the song mine. 



100 



THE LAZY MIST. 



This song is mine. 

The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill, 
Concealing the course of the dark-winding rill ; 
How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, appear, 
As autumn to winter resigns the pale year. 
The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown, 
And all the gay foppery of summer is flown : 
Apart let me wander, apart let me muse 
How quick time is flying, how keen fate pursues. 

How long I have liv'd — but how much liv'd in vain ; 
How little of life's scanty span may remain : 
What aspects, old time, in his progress, has worn ; 
What ties, cruel fate, in my bosom has torn. 
How foolish, or worse, till our summit is gain'd ! 
And downward, how weaken'd, how darken'd, how 

pain'd ! 
Life is not worth having, with all it can give ; 
For something beyond it poor man sure must live. 



101 



JOHNIE COPE. 



THIS satirical song was composed to commemorate 
General Copes defeat at Preston Pans, in 1745, 
when he marched against the Clans. 

The air was the tune of an old song, of which I 
have heard some verses, but now only remember the 
title, which was, 

Will ye go to the coals in the morning. 



Tune— Fy to the hills in the morning. 

Cope sent a challenge from Dunbar, 
Saying, sir, come fight me, if you dare, 
If it be not by the chance of war, 
I'll catch you all in the morning. 

Charlie look'd the letter upon, 
He drew his sword his scabbard from, 
Saying, Come follow me, my merry men, 
And we'll visit Cope in the morning. 

My merry men, come follow me, 
For now's the time I'll let you see, 



102 

What a happy nation this will be, 
And we'll visit Cope in the morning. 

Tis Cope, are you waking yet ? 

Or are you sleeping ? I would wit ; 

Tis a wonder to me when your drums beat,, 

It does not waken you in the morning. 

The Highland men came down the loan, 
With sword and target in their hand, 
They took the dawning by the end, 
And they visited Cope in the morning. 

For all their bombs, and bomb-granades, 
*Twas when they saw the Highland-lads, 
They ran to the hills as if they were calves, 
And scour'd off early in the morning. 

For all your bombs, and your bomb-shells, 
? Tis when they saw the Highland-lads, 
They ran to the hills like frighted wolves, 
All pursued by the clans in the morning. 

The Highland knaves, with loud huzzas^ 
Cries, Cope, are you quite awa ? 
Bide a little, and shake a pa, 
And we'll give you a merry morning. 



103 

Cope went along unto Haddington, 
They ask'd him where was all his men ; 
The pox on me if I do ken, 
For I left them all this morning. 5 * 



* VARIATION. 

JOHNY COUP, 

Coup sent a challenge frae Dunbar, 
Charlie, meet me an ye dare, 
And Til learn you the art of war, 
If you'll meet wi' me in the morning. 

Hey Johny Coup, are ye waking yet? 

Or are your drums a beating yet ? 

If ye were waking I wou'd wait 

To gang to the coals i' the morning. 

When Charlie look'd the letter upon, 
He drew his sword the scabbard from, 
Come follow me, my merry merry men, 
And we'll meet Jonnie Coup i' the morning. 
Hey Jonnie Coup are ye waking yet, &c. 

Now, Jonnie, be as good as your word, 
Come let us try both fire and sword, 
And dinna rin awa' like a frighted bird, 
That's chas'd frae it's nest in the morning. 
Hey Jonnie Coup, &c. 



104 



I LOVE MY JEAN. 



THIS air is by Marshall; the song I composed 
out of compliment to Mrs. Burns. 

N. B. It was during the honey-moon. 



When Jonnie Coup he heard of this, 
He thought it wadna be amiss 
To hae a horse in readiness, , 
To flie awa' i' the moruing. 
Hey Jonnie Coup, &c. 

Fy now Jonnie get up and rin, 
The Highland bagpipes makes a din, 
It's best to sleep in a hale skin, 
For 'twill be a bluddie morning. 
Hey Jonnie Coup, &c. 

When Jonnie Coup to Dunbar came, 
They spear'd at him, where's a' your men, 
The deil confound me gin I kea, 
For I left them a 5 i' the morning. 
Hey Jonnie Coup, &c. 

Now, Jonnie, trouth ye was na blate, 
To come wi' the news o' your ain defeat, 
And leave your men in sic a strait, 
So early in the morning. 
Hey Jonnie Coup, &c. 

Ah! 



105 



Tune—Miss Admiral Gordon's Strathspey. 

Of a' the airts # the wind can blaw, 

I dearly like the west, 
For there the borne lassie lives, 

The lassie I lo'e best : 
There's wild woods grow, and rivers row, 

And mony a hill between ; 
But day and night my fancy's flight 

Is ever wi' my Jean. 



I see her in the dewy flowers, 
I see her sweet and fair ; 



Ah ! faith, co' Jonie, I got a fleg, 
With their claymores and philabegs, 
If I face them again, deil break my legs ; 
So I wish you a good morning. 
Hey Jonnie Coup, &e. 

In Johnson's " Scots Musical Museum," Edin. 1787, &c. is 
a copy differing very much from both. One would wish to 
know the original, which, perhaps, is now impossible. 

* Quarters of the heaven. What airf s the wind in? signifies. 
What point does the wind blow from ? 



106 

I hear her in the tunefu' birds, 
I hear her charm the air : 

There's not a bony flower that springs, 
By fountain, shaw, or green, 

There's not a bony bird that sings 
But minds me o' my Jean. 



CEASE, CEASE MY DEAR FRIEND TO EXPLORE. 

The song is by Dr. Blacklock; I believe, but 
am not quite certain, that the air is his too. 



DONALD AND FLORA* 

THIS is one of those fine Gaelic tunes, preserved 
from time immemorial in the Hebrides ; they seem 
to be the ground-work of many of our finest Scots 
pastoral tunes. The words of this song were written 
to commemorate the unfortunate expedition of Ge- 
neral Burgoyne in America, in 1777. # 

* This song is by Hector M'Neil, Esq. 



]07 



O WERE I ON PARNASSUS' HILL, 



THIS air is Oswald's: the song I made out of 
complime?it to Mrs. Burns. 

were I on Parnassus' hill, 
Or had o' Helicon my fill ; 
That I might catch poetic skill, 
To sing how dear I love thee. 
But Nith maun be my Muses well, 
My Muse maun be thy bonie sell ; 
On Corsincon I'll glow'r and spell, 

And write how dear I love thee. 

Then come, sweet Muse, inspire my lay ! 
For a' the lee-lang simmer's day, 

1 coudna sing, I coudna say, 
How much, how dear, I love thee. 
I see thee dancing o'er the green, 

Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean> 
Thy tempting lips, thy roguish een— 
By heaven and earth I love thee ! 

By night, by day, a field, at hame, 
The thoughts a' thee my breast inflame ; 



108 

And ay I muse and sing thy name, 
I only live to love thee ! 
Tho' I were doom'd to wander on, 
Beyond the sea, beyond the sun, 
'Till my last weary sand was run ; 
'Till then, and then I love thee ! 



THE CAPTIVE RIBBAND. 



THIS air is called Robie-donna Gorach. 



THERE S A YOUTH IN THIS CITY. 

THIS air is claimed by Neil Gow, who calls it 
his lament for his brother. The first half-stanza of 
the song is old ; the rest is mine.* 



* In a memorandum book, in the Editor's possession, he found 
the venerable portrait of this national musician thus drawn by 
Burns, with his usual characteristic strength and expression. 
« A short, stout-built, honest highland figure, with his gray- 
ish 



109 

There's a youth in this city, it were a great pity 
That he from our lasses should wander awa ; 

For he's bonie and braw, weel-favour'd with a', 
And his hair has a natural buckle and a'. 

ish hair shed on his honest social brow ; — an interesting face, 
marking strong sense, kind open-heartedness, mixed with un- 
mistrusting simplicity." The author of the Sahbatk lias also pub- 
lished tributary verses to his memory, that possess a tender sim- 
plicity, of which the subject is highly worthy. 

tc The blythe Strathspey springs up, reminding some 

Of nights when Gow's old arm, (nor old the tale,) 

Unceasing, save when reeking cans went round, 

Made heart and heel leap light as bounding roe. 

Alas ! no more shall we behold that look 

So venerable, yet so blent with mirth, 

And festive joy sedate ; that ancient garb 

Unvaried,— tartan hose, and bonnet blue! 

No more shall Beauty's partial eye draw forth 

The full intoxication of his strain, 

Mellifluous, strong, exuberantly rich ! 

No more, amid the pauses of the dance, 

Shall he repeat those measures, that in days 

Of other years, could soothe a falling prince, 

And light his visage with a transient smile 

Of melancholy joy> — like autumn sun 

Gilding a sere tree with a passing beam I 

Or play to sportive children on the green 

Dancing at gloamin hour ; on willing cheer 

With strains unbought, the shepherd's bridal-day !" 

British Georgics, p. 81* 
" Neil Gow was born in Strathbrand, Perthshire, in the year 

172T. 



110 



His coat is the hue of his bonnet sae blue; 

His fecket* is white as the new-driven snaw ; 
His hose they are blae, and his shoon like the slae, 

And his clear siller buckles they dazzle us a.' 
His coat is the hue, fyc. 



1727. He died at Inver, near Dunkeld, on the 1st of March, 
1807. In private life he was distinguished by a sound and vigor- 
ous understanding, by a singularly acute penetration into the 
character of those, both in the higher and lower spheres of so- 
ciety, with whom he had intercourse ; and by the conciliating 
and appropriate accommodation of his remarks and replies, to 
the peculiarities of their station and temper. In these he often 
shewed a high degree of forcible humour, strong sense and know- 
ledge of the world, and proved himself to have at once a mind 
naturally sagacious, and a very attentive and discriminating ha- 
bit of observation. But his most honourable praise is to be 
drawn from a view of his character, which was not so obvious to 
the public. His moral and religious principles were originally 
correct, rational, and heartfelt, and they were never corrupted. 
His duty in the domestic relations of life, he uniformly fulfilled 
with exemplary fidelity, generosity, and kindness. In short, by 
the general integrity, prudence, and propriety of his conduct, 
he deserved, and he lived and died possessing, as large a portion 
of respect from his equals, and of good will from his superiors, 
as has ever fallen to the lot of any man of his rank. 

" Though he had raised himself to independent and affluent cir- 
cumstances in his old age, he continued free of every appear- 
ance 

* An under-waistcoat with sleeves. 



Ill 



For beauty and fortune the laddie's been courtin ; 

Weel-featur'd, weel-tocher'd, weel mounted and 
braw; 
But chiefly the siller, that gars him gang till her, 

The pennie's the jewel that beautifies a\ — 
There's Meg wi' the mailin, that fain wad a haen 
him, 

And Susy whase daddy was Laird o' the ha' ; 
There's lang-tocher'd Nancy maist fetters his fancy, 

— But the laddie's dear sel he lo'es dearest of a'. 



ance of vanity or ostentation. He retained to the last, the same 
plain and unassuming simplicity in his carriage, his dress, and his 
manners, which he had observed in his early and more obscure 
years. His figure was vigorous and manly j and the expression 
of his countenance spirited and intelligent. His whole appear- 
ance, indeed, exhibited so characteristic a model of what national 
partiality conceives a Scottish highlander to be, that his portrait 
has been repeatedly copied. An admirable likeness of him was 
painted a few years ago, for the Hon. Mr. Maule of Panmure, 
M. P. for Forfarshire, by Mr. Raeburn : and he has been intro- 
duced into the View of a Highland Wedding, by the late inge= 
nious Mr. Allan, to whom he was requested to sit for the pur* 
pose." Scots Mag. 



1I« 

MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS. 
Tune — Failte na miosg. 

The first half -stanza of this song is old; the rest 
is mine. 

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here ; 
My heart's in the Highlands a chasing the deer ; 
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, 
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. 
Farewel to the Highlands, farewel to the North, 
The birth-place of valour, the country of worth ; 
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, 
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love ! 

Farewel to the mountains high cover'd with snow ; 
Farewel to the straths and green vallies below : 
Farewel to the forests and wild-hanging woods ; 
Farewel to the tojrents and loud-pouring floods. 
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here, 
My heart's in the Highlands a chasing the deer : 
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, 
My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go. 



113 

THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS.* 

The first half stanza of this ballad is old. 

The lovely lass o' Inverness, 

Nae joy nor pleasure can she see ; 
For e'en and morn, she cries, alas ! 

And ay the saut tear blins her ee. 
Drumossie moor, Drumossie day, 

A waefu' day it was to me ; 
For there I lost my father dear, 

My father dear and brethren three ! 

Their winding sheet the bluidy clay, 

Their graves are growing green to see; 
And by them lies the dearest lad 

That ever blest a woman's ee ! 
Now wae to thee thou cruel lord, 

A bluidy man I trow thou be ; 
For mony a heart thou hast made sair, 

That ne'er did wrang to thine or thee ! 

* By Burns. 
VOL. II. I 



114 



THE SHEPHERDS PREFERENCE. 

THIS song is Blacklock's. — I dortt know how it 
came by the name, but the oldest appellation of the 
air zvas, Whistle and I'll come to you my lad. 

It has little affinity to the tune commonly known 
by that name. 



THE BONIE BANKS OF AYR. 

i* COMPOSED this song as I convoyed my chest so 
far on the road to Greenock, where I was to em- 
bark in a few days for Jamaica. 

I meant it as my farewel Dirge to my native 
land. 

The gloomy night is gathering fast, 
Loud roars the wild, inconstant blast ; 

* " I had taken the last farewel of my few friends ; my chest 
was on the road to Greenock ; I had composed the last song I 
should ever measure in Caledonia, The gloomy Night is gathering 
fast. 

Letter to Dr. Moore, vol. i. p. 35. Dr. Currie's ed. 



115 

Yon murky cloud is foul with rain > 
I see it driving o'er the plain : 
The hunter now has left the moor, 
The scattered coveys meet secure, 
While here I wander, prest with care, 
Along the lonely banks of Ayr. 

The autumn mourns her rip'ning corn, 
By early winter's ravage torn ; 
Across her placid, azure sky, 
She sees the scowling tempest fly : 
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave, 
I think upon the stormy wave, 
Where many a danger I must dare, 
Far from the bonie banks of Ayr. 

'Tis not the surging billow's roar, 
Tis not that fatal, deadly shore ; 
Tho' death in every shape appear, 
The wretched have no more to fear : 
But round my heart the ties are bound ; 
That heart transpierc'd with many a wound, 
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear, 
To leave the bonie banks of Ayr. 

Farewel, old Coila's hills and dales, 
Her heathy moors and winding vales ; 



llG 

The scenes where wretched fancy roves, 
Pursuing past, unhappy loves ! 
Farewel, my friends ! farewel my foes ! 
My peace with these, my love with those ! 
The bursting tears my heart declare, 
Farewel, the bonie banks of Ayr ! 



A WAUKRIFE MINNIE. # 

I PICKED up this old song and tune from a 
country girl in Nithsdale. — I never met with it 
elsewhere in Scotland. 

Whare are you gaun, my bonie lass, 
Where are you gaun, my hinnie, 

She answer'd me right saucilie, 
An errand for my minnie. 

O whare live ye, my bonie lass, 

O whare live ye, my hinnie, 
By yon burn-side, gin ye maun ken, 

In a wee house wi* my minnie. 

* A watchful mother. 



117 

But I foor up the glen at een, 

To see my borne lassie ; 
And lang before the gray morn cam, 

She was na hauf sae saucie. 

O weary fa' the waukrife cock, 
And the foumart lay his crawin ! 

He wauken'd the auld wife frae her sleep, 
A wee blink or the dawin. 

An angry wife I wat she raise, 

And o'er the bed she brought her ; 

And wi' a mickle hazle rung 

She made her a weel pay'd dochter. 

O fare thee weel, my bonie lass ! 

O fare thee weel, my hinnie ! 
Thou art a gay and a bonie lass, 

But thou hast a waukrife minnie. # 



* The peasantry have a verse superior to some of those reco- 
vered by Burns, which is worthy of notice, — Ed. 

O though thy hair was gowden weft, 

An' thy lips o' drapping hinnie, 
Thou hast gotten the clog that winna cling 

For a' you're waukrife minnie." 



118 



TUT.T.OCHGORUM. 



THIS, first of songs, is the master-piece of my old 
friend Skinner. He was passing the day at the 
town of Ellon, I think it was, in a friend's house 
whose name was Montgomery. — Mrs. Montgomery 
observing, en passant, that the beautiful reel of 
Tullochgorum wanted words, she begged them of 
Mr. Skinner, who gratified her wishes, and the 
wishes of every lover of Scottish song, in this most 
excellent ballad. 

These particulars I had from the author's son, 
Bishop Skinner, at Aberdeen. 

Come gie's a sang, Montgomery cry'd, 
And lay your disputes all aside, 
What signifies't for folks to chide 

For what was done before them : 
Let Whig and Tory all agree, 

Whig and Tory, Whig and Tory, 
Whig and Tory all agree, 

To drop their Whig-mig-morum. # 

* Whig-mig-morum occurs in Habbie Simpson's epitaph— 
" Sa Weill's he keipit his decorum, 
And all the stotis of Quhip Meg Morum." 

Stotis 



119 

Let Whig and Tory all agree 

To spend the night wi' mirth and glee, 

And cheerful sing alang wi' me, 

The Reel o' Tullochgorum. 

O, Tullochgorum's my delight, 

It gars us a' in ane unite, 

And ony sumph that keeps up spite, 

In conscience I abhor him : 
For blythe and cheerie we'll be a', 

Blythe and cheerie, blythe and cheerie, 
Blythe and cheerie we'll be a', 

And make a happy quorum, 
For blythe and cheerie we'll be a', 
As lang as we hae breath to draw, 
And dance till we be like to fa' 

The Reel o' Tullochgorum. 

What needs there be sae great a fraise, 
Wi' dringing dull Italian lays, 
I wadna gie our ain Strathspeys 

For half a hunder score o' them. 
They're dowf and dowie at the best, 
Dowf and dowie, dowf and dowie, 
Dowf and dowie at the best, 
Wi' a' their variorum ; 

Stotis means notes of music. Quhip meg-morwn, the name of 
an old air; therefore the sense is, Notes of Whi^meg-morum 



120 

They're dowf and dowie at the best, 
Their allegros and a' the rest, 
They canna' please a Scottish taste, 
Compar'd wi' Tullochgorum. 

Let warldly worms their minds oppress 
Wi' fears o' want and double cess, 
And sullen sots themsells distress 
Wi' keeping up decorum : 
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit, 

Sour and sulky, sour and sulky, 
Sour and sulky shall we sit 
Like old philosophorum ! 
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit, 
Wi' neither sense, nor mirth, nor wit, 
Nor ever try to shake a fit 

To the Reel o' Tullochgorum ? 

May choicest blessings ay attend 

Each honest, open-hearted friend, 

And calm and quiet be his end, 

And a' that's good watch o'er him ; 

May peace and plenty be his lot, 

Peace and plenty, peace and plenty, 
Peace and plenty be his lot, 

And dainties a great store o' them ; 

May peace and plenty be his lot, 

Unstain'd by any vicious spot, 



121 

And may he never want a groat, 

That's fond o' Tullochgorum ! 

But for the sullen frumpish fool, 
That loves to be oppression's tool, 
May envy gnaw his rotten soul, 

And discontent devour him ; 
May dool and sorrow be his chance, 

Dool and sorrow, dool and sorrow, 
Dool and sorrow be his chance, 

And nane say, wae's me for him ! 
May dool and sorrow be his chance, 
Wi' a' the ills that come frae France, 
Wha e'er he be that winna dance 

The Reel o' Tullochgorum. 



122 



JOHN O BADENYON. 



THIS excellent song is also the composition of 
my worthy friend, old Skinner, at Linshart. 

When first I cam to be a man 

Of twenty years or so, 
I thought myself a handsome youth, 

And fain the world would know ; 
In best attire I stept abroad, 

With spirits brisk and gay, 
And here and there and every where 

Was like a morn in May ; 
No care I had nor fear of want, 

But rambled up and down, 
And for a beau I might have past 

In country or in town ; 
I still was pleas'd where'er I went, 

And when I was alone, 
I tun'd my pipe and pleas'd myself 

Wi' John o' Badenyon. 

Now in the days of youthful prime 

A mistress I must find, 
For love, I heard, gave one an air, 

And ev'n improved the mind : 



123 

On Phillis fair above the rest 

Kind fortune fixt my eyes, 
Her piercing beauty struck my heart, 

And she became my choice ; 
To Cupid now with hearty prayer 

I offered many a vow ; 
And danc'd and sung, and sigh'd, and swore, 

As other lovers do ; 
But, when at last I breath'd my flame, 

I found her cold as stone ; 
I left the girl, and tun'd my pipe 

To John o' Badenyon. 

When love had thus my heart beguiFd 

With foolish hopes and vain ; 
To friendship's port I steer'd my course, 

And laugh'd at lovers' pain ; 
A friend I got by lucky chance, 

'Twas something like divine, 
An honest friend's a precious gift, 

And such a gift was mine ; 
And now whatever might betide, 

A happy man was I, 
In any strait I knew to whom 

I freely might apply ; 
A strait soon came : my friend I try'd ; 

He heard, and spurn'd my moan ; 



124 

I hy'd me home, and tun'd my pipe 
To John o' Badenyon. 

Methought I should be wiser next 

And would a patriot turn, 
Began to doat on Johnny Wilkes, 

And cry up Parson Horne. # 
Their manly spirit I admir'd, 

And prais'd their noble zeal, 
Who had with flaming tongue and pen 

Maintained the public weal ; 
But e'er a month or two had past, 

I found myself betray 'd, 
'Twas self 3X\& party after all, 

For a' the stir they made ; 
At last I saw the factious knaves 

Insult the very throne, 
I curs'd them a', and tun'd my pipe 

To John o' Badenyon. 

What next to do I mus'd a while, 

Still hoping to succeed, 
I pitch'd on books for company, 

And gravely try'd to read : 

* This song was composed when Wilkes, Home, &c. were 
making a noise about liberty. 



125 

I bought and borrow'd every where 

And study'd night and day, 
Nor mis'd what dean or doctor wrote 

That happen'd in my way : 
Philosophy I now esteem'd 

The ornament of youth, 
And carefully through many a page 

I hunted after truth. 
A thousand various schemes I try'd, 

And yet was pleas'd with none, 
I threw them by, and tun'd my pipe 

To John o' Badenyon. 

And now ye youngsters every where; 

That wish to make a show, 
Take heed in time, nor fondly hope 

For happiness below ; 
What you may fancy pleasure here, 

Is but an empty name, 
And girls, and friends, and books, and so, 

You'll find them all the same ; 
Then be advised and warning take 

From such a man as me ; 
I'm neither Pope nor Cardinal, 

Nor one of high degree ; 



126 

You'll meet displeasure every where ; 

Then do as I have done, 
Ee'n tune your pipe and please yourselves 

With John o' Badenyon. 



FOR A' THAT, AND A THAT. 

THIS song is mine, all except the chorus.* 

* This is part of the " Bard's Song," in the " Jolly Beggars," 
a Cantata, which is printed at the end of this volume. 

It is observed of Gay that he had long formed the idea of 
writing a Newgate Pastoral, and that the conception, when 
matured, produced the Beggars' Opera. In the " Jolly 
Beggars" of Burns the reader will see Gay's first sketch com- 
pletely illustrated ; but here the design and the execution are 
equally original, and perhaps no poem of our Bard more abounds 
in those genuine and lively strokes of character which display 
the hand of a master, and which so happily realize the maxim 
of Horace — ut pictura poms. — Ed. 



1«27 



AULD LANG SYNE. 



J&AMSAY, as usual with him, has taken the idea 
of the song, and the first line, from the old 
fragment, zohich may be seen in The Museum, 
vol. v. 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 

And never brought to mind ? 
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
And auld lang syne ! 

For auld lang syne, my jo, 

For auld lang syne, 
We'll tak a cup o 7 kindness yet, 
For auld lang syne ! 

And surely ye'll be your pint stoup ! 

And surely I'll be mine ! 
And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, 

For auld lang syne. 
For auld, #c. 

We twa hae run about the braes, 

And pou't the gowans fine ; 
But we've wander'd mony a weary foot 

Sin auld lang syne. 
For auld, fyc. 



128 

We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, 

Frae morning sun 'till dine ; 
But seas between us braid hae roar'd, 

Sin auld lang syne. 
For auld, fyc. 

And there's a han', my trusty fiere, 

And gies a han' o' thine ! 
And we'll tak a right gude willy-waught* 

For auld lang syne if 
For auld, fyc. 

• Willy-waught, a hearty draught. 

t Burns sometimes wrote poems in the old ballad style, which, 
for reasons best known to himself, he gave the public as songs 
of the olden time. That famous Soldier's song in particular, 
printed in this Collection, vol. ii. p. 98, beginning, 

" Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, 
An' fill it in a silver tassie, 
That I may drink before I go, 
A service to my boimie lassie \* 

has been pronounced by some of our best living Poets an inimi- 
table relique of some ancient Minstrel! Yet the Editor discovered 
it to be the actual production of Burns himself. This ballad of 
Auld lang syne was also introduced in an ambiguous manner, 
though there exist proofs that the two best stanzas of it are in- 
disputably his. He delighted to imitate and muse on the cus- 
toms and opinions of his ancestors. He wished to warm his 
mind with those ideas of felicity which perhaps, at all times, are 

more 



129 



THE LAIRD OF COCKPEN. 

HERE is a verse of this lively old song that used 
to be sung after these printed ones. 

O, wha has lien wi J our Lord yestreen ? 

O, wha has lien wi- our Lord yestreen ? 

In his soft down bed, O, twa fowk were the sted, 

An* whare lay the chamber maid, lassie, yestreen ? 

more boasted of than enjoyed. The happiness of rustic society 
in its approach to modern refinement — his delight in the society 
and converse of the aged, all tended to confer on him that 
powerful gift of imitating the ancient ballads of his country with 
the ease and simplicity of his models. This ballad of < Auld 
lang syne' would have been esteemed a beautiful modern in the 
days of Ramsay: its sentiments and language are admirably 
mixed with the sweet recollections of boyish pranks and endear- 
ments, To a native of Scotland, the phrase * Auld lang syne' 
is very expressive, and " conveys a soothing idea to the mind, as 
recalling * the memory of joys that are past. 5 

Burns's most successful imitation of the old style seems to be 
in his verses entitled 'The lovely Lass of Inverness.' He took 
up the idea from the first half verse, which is all that remains of 
the old words, and this prompted the feelings and tore of the 
time he wished to commemorate. That he passed some of these 
as the popular currency of other years is well known, though 
only discovered by the variations which his papers contain. He 
scattered these samples to be picked up by inquisitive criticism, 
that he might listen to its remarks, and, perhaps, secretly enjoy 
the admiration which they excited. 

VOL. II. K 



130 



COCKPEN. 



O, when she came ben she bobbed fu' law, 
O, when she came ben she bobbed fu' law, 
And when she came ben she kiss'd Cockpen, 
And syne deny'd she did it at a\ 

And was na cockpen right saucie with a', 
And was na Cockpen right saucie with a*, 
In leaving the daughter of a Lord, 
And kissin a collier lassie, an' a' ? 

O never look down my lassie, at a', 

O never look down my lassie, at a', 

Thy lips are as sweet, and thy figure complete 

As the finest dame in castle or ha\ 

TW thou has nae silk and holland sae sma', 
Tho' thou has nae silk and holland sae sma', 
Thy coat and thy sark are thy ain handy-wark, 
And Lady Jean was never sae braw ! 



131 



CA ? THE EWES TO THE KNOWES. 

THIS beautiful song is in the true old Scotch 
taste, yet I do not know that either air or words 
were in print before. 

Ca' the ewes to the knowes, 

Ca 9 them whare the heather grows^ 

Ca 9 them whare the burnie rowes, 
My bonnie dearie. 

As I gaed down the water-side, 
There I met my shepherd lad, 

He row'd me sweetly in his plaid, 
An ? he ca'd me his dearie. 

Ca 9 the ewes, fyc. 

Will ye gang down the water-side, 
And see the waves sae sweetly glide, 

Beneath the hazels spreading wide, 
The moon it shines fu' clearly. 
Ca! the ewes, fyc. 

I was bred up at nae sic school 
My shepherd lad, to play the fool, 
k 2 



132 

And a' the day to sit in dool, 
And naebody to see me. 
Ca the ewesy fyc. 

Ye sail get gowns and ribbons meet, 
Cauf-leather shoon upon your feet, 

And in my arms ye'se lie and sleep, 
And ye sail be my dearie. 
Ca' the ewes, #c. 

If ye'll but stand to what ye've said, 
I'se gang wi' you my shepherd-lad, 

And ye may rowe me in your plaid, 
And I sail be your dearie. 

Ca' the ewes, fyc. 

While waters wimple to the sea ; 

While day blinks in the lift sae hie ; 
'Till clay-cauld death sail blin my e'e, 

Ye sail be my dearie. # 
Ca 9 the ewes, fyc. 

* Mrs. Burns informed the Editor that the last verse of this 
song was written by Burns. 



153 

LOUIS, WHAT RECK I BY THEE. 

THESE words are mine. 

Louis, what reck I by thee, 
Or Geordie on his ocean : 

Dyvor, beggar louns to me — • 
I reign in Jeanie's bosom ! 

Let her crown my love her law, 
And in her breast enthrone me : 

Kings and nations, swith, awa ! 
Reif randies I disown ye ! 



LAD1E MARY ANN. 

THE starting verse should be restored:— 

ee Lady Mary Ann gaed out o ? her bower, 

An* she found a bonnie rose new i' the flower; 

As she kiss'd its ruddy lips drapping wr* dew, 

Quo* she, ye're nae sae sweet as my Charlie's mou 6 J 



134 



LADIE MARY ANN. 



O Lady Mary Ann looks o'er the castle wa', 
She saw three bonnie boys playing at the ba', 
The youngest he was the flower amang them a' ; 
My bonnie laddie's young, but he's growin' yet. 

u O father, O father, an' ye think it fit, 
We'll send him a year to the college yet ; 
We'll sew a green ribbon round about his hat, 
And that will let them ken he's to marry yet." 

Lady Mary Ann was a flower in the dew, 
Sweet was its smell, and bonnie was its hue, 
And the langer it blossomed, the sweeter it grew ; 
For the lily in the bud will be bonnier yet. 

Young Charlie Cochran was the sprout of an aik, 
Bonnie, and blooming, and straight was its make, 
The sun took delight to shine for its sake, 
And it will be the brag o' the forest yet. 

The simmer is gane, when the leaves they were green ; 
And the days are awa that we hae seen; 
But far better days, I trust, will come again, 

For my bonnie laddie's young, but he's growin' yet. 



335 



WILLIE BREW B A PECK O MAUT. 

THIS air is Masterton's; the song mine. — The 
occasion of it was this: — Mr. Wm. Nicol, of the 
High School, Edinburgh, during the autumn vaca- 
tion, being at Moffat, honest Allan, who was at that 
time on a visit to Dalswinton, and I went to pay 
Nicol a visit. — We had such a joyous meeting, that 
Mr. Masterton and 1 agreed, each in our own way, 
that we should celebrate the business. 

O Willie brew'd a peck o' maut, 
And Rob and Allan cam to see ; 

Three blyther hearts, that lee-lang night, 
Ye wad na find in Christendie. 

We are nafou, we're na that four, 
But just a drappie in our ee; 

The cock may craw, the day may daw, 
And ay well taste the barley bree. 

Here are we met, three merry boys, 
Three merry boys I trow are we ; 

And mony a night we've merry been, 
And mony mae we hope to be ! 
We are nafou, fyc. 



136 

It is the moon, I ken her horn, 

That's blinkin in the lift sae hie ; 
She shines sae bright to wyle us hame, 

But by my sooth she'll wait a wee ! 
We are nafou y fyc. 

Wha first shall rise to gang awa', 

A cuckold, coward loun is he ! 
Wha last beside his chair shall fa', 

He is the king amang us three ! 
We are nafou, $*£.* 

* " Willie, who * brew'd a peck o* maut,' was Mr. William 
Nicol ; and Rob and Allan were our Poet and his friend Allan 
Masterton. This meeting took place at Laggan, a farm pur* 
chased by Mr. Nicol, in Nithsdale, on the recommendation of 
Bums. These three honest fellows — all men of uncommon 
talents, are now all under the turf. (1799)." 



137 



KILLYCRANKY.* 

THE battle of Killy cranky was the last stand 
made by the Clans for James, after his abdication. 
Here Dundee^ fell in the moment of victory, and 
with him fell the hopes of the party. — General 
Mackay, when he found the Highlanders did not 
pursue his flying army, said, " Dundee must be 
killed, or he never would have overlooked this ad- 
vantage." — A great stone marks the spot where 
Dundee fell. 

Clavers and his highland-men. 
Came down upo' the raw, man, 

Who being stout, gave mony a clout, 
The lads began to claw, then. 

* The battle of Killycranky was fought on the 17th June, 
1689. This song may be regarded as the first of the numerous 
series now called Jacobite songs. — Ritson. 

t Within an hour of sunset the signal was given by Dundee, 
and the Highlanders descended in thick and separate columns to 
the attack. After a single desultory discharge, they rushed for- 
ward with the sword, before the regulars, whose bayonets were 
then inserted within the musket, could be prepared to receive 
or to resist their furious attack. The weight of their columns 
pierced through the thin and straggling line, where Mackay 

commanded 



138 

With sword and terge into their hand/ 
Wi' which they were nae slaw, man, 

Wi' mony a fearful heavy sigh, 
The lads began to claw, then. 



commanded in person ; and their ponderous swords completed 
the rout. Within a few minutes the victors and the vanquished 
intermixed together in the field, in the pursuit, and in the river 
disappeared from view : Mackay alone, when deserted by his 
horse and surrounded, forced his way to the right wing, where 
two regiments had maintained their ground. While the enemy 
were intent on plundering the baggage, he conducted them in 
silence and in obscurity across the river beneath the defile, and 
continued his flight for two days through the mountains to Stir- 
ling. 

But Dundee, whose pursuit he dreaded, was himself no more. 
After a desperate and successful charge on the artillery, which 
he seized with his horse, he returned to restore the battle on the 
left, and to renew the attack against the two regiments that re- 
mained entire. At that moment, while his arms was extended 
to his troops, and while his person was conspicuous to the enemy, 
he received a shot in his side, through an opening in his armour, 
and dropt from horseback as he rode off the field. He survived 
to write a concise and dignified account of his victory to James. 
With the loss of nine hundred of his men, two thousand of the 
enemy were killed or taken ; and but for his untimely fate, not a 
man would have escaped. Had he survived to improve this dis- 
tinguished victory, little doubt can be entertained that he would 
have recovered the whole of Scotland beyond the Forth. His 
party were prepared to take arms on the borders, and his pro- 
gress 



139 

O'er bush, o'er bank, o'er ditch, o'er stank, 

She flang amang them a' man ; 
The butter-box got mony knocks, 

Their riggings paid for a' then ; 
They got their paiks, wi' sudden straiks, 

Which to their grief they saw man ; 
Wi' clinkum clankum o'er their crowns, 

The lads began to fa' then. 

Hur skipt about, hur leapt about, 

And flang amang them a', man ; 
The English blades got broken heads, 

Their crowns were cleav'd in twa then. 
The durk and door made their last hour, 

And prov'd their final fa', man ; 
They thought the devil had been there, 

That play'd them sic a paw then. 



gress southwards might have arrested William's attention and 
arms, till James was firmly established in Ireland. But his death 
was fatal to his party ; and among the papers found on his body, 
a letter from Melfort, intimating that the indemnity was couched 
in such terms as might be broken or revoked by the king at 
pleasure, excited deep disgust at the insincerity of James. A 
rude stone was erected on the spot, to mark his victory to future 
times. His memory was long lamented by his party, and his 
name is still celebrated in their poetry,, as the last of the Scots. 

Laing's History of Scotland. 



140 

The solemn league and covenant 

Came whigging up the hills, man, 
Thought highland trews durst not refuse 

For to subscribe their bills then : 
In Willie's name # they thought nae ane 

Durst stop their course at a', man ; 
But hur nane sell, wi' mony a knock, 

Cry'd, Furich-whiggs, awa', man. 

Sir Evan Du, and his men true, 

Came linking up the brink, man ; 
The Hogan Dutch they feared such, 

They bred a horrid stink, then. 
The true Maclean, and his fierce men, 

Came in amang them a', man ; 
Nane durst withstand his heavy hand, 

All fled and ran awa' then. 

OK on a ri, oh! on a ri, 

Why should she lose king Shames, man? 
OK rig in di> oh? rig in di y 

She shall break a' her banes then ; 
With furichi?iish, an stay a while, 

And speak a word or twa, man, 
She's gi' a straike, out o'er the neck, 

Before ye win awa' then. 



Prince of Orange. 



141 

O fy for shame, ye're three for ane, 

Hur nane-sell's won the day, man ; 
King Shames' red-coats should be hung up, 

Because they ran awa' then : 
Had bent their brows, like highland trows, 

And made as laug a stay, man, 
They'd sav'd their king, that sacred thing, 

And Willie'd i run' awa' then. 



THE EWIE Wl' THE CROOKIT HORN. 



ANOTHER excellent song of old Skinner's. 

Were I but able to rehearse 

My Ewie's praise in proper verse, 

I'd sound it forth as loud and fierce 

As ever piper's drone could blaw: 
The Ewie wi' the crookit horn, 
Wha had kent her might hae sw r orn 
Sic a Ewe was never born, 

Hereabout nor far awa', 
Sic a Ewe was never born, 

Hereabout nor far awa\ 



142 

I never needed tar nor keil 
To mark her upo' hip or heel, 
Her crookit horn did as weel 

To ken her by amo' them a' ; 
She never threaten'd scab nor rot, 
But keepit ay her ain jog trot, 
Baith to the fauld and to the cot, 

Was never sweir to lead nor caw, 
Baith to the fauld and to the cot, &c. 

Cauld nor hunger never dang her, 
Wind nor wet could never wrang her, 
Anes she lay an ouk and langer, 

Furth aneath a wreath o' snaw : 
Whan ither Ewies lap the dyke, 
And eat the kail for a' the tyke, 
My Ewie never play'd the like, 

But tyc'd about the barn wa' ; 
My Ewie never play'd the like, &c. 

A better or a thriftier beast, 

Nae honest man could weel hae wist, 

For silly thing she never mist, 

To hae ilk' year a lamb or twa' ; 
The first she had I gae to Jock, 
To be to him a kind o' stock, 



143 

And now the laddie has a flock 

O' mair nor thirty head ava > ; 
And now the laddie has a flock, &c. 

I lookit aye at even' for her, 

Lest mishanter shou'd come o'er her, 

Or the fowmart might devour her, 

Gin the beastie bade awa ; 
My Ewie wi' the crookit horn, 
Well deserv'd baith girse and corn, 
Sic a Ewe was never born, 

Here-about nor far awa. 
Sic a Ewe was never born, &c. 

Yet last ouk, for a' my keeping, 
(Wha can speak it without weeping ?) 
A villain cam when I was sleeping, 

Sta' my Ewie, horn and a' ; 
I sought her sair upo' the morn, 
And down aneath a buss o' thorn 
I got my Ewie's crookit horn, 

But my Ewie was awa'. 
I got my Ewie's crookit horn, &c. 

O ! gin I had the loun that did it, 
Sworn I have as well as said it, 
Tho' a' the warld should forbid it, 
I wad gie his neck a thra' : 



144 

I never met wi' sic a turn, 
As this sin ever I was born, 
My Ewie wi' the crookit horn, 

Silly Ewie stown awa', 
My Ewie wi' the crookit horn, &c. 

O ! had she died o' crook or cauld, 
As Ewies do when they grow auld, 
It wad na been, by mony fauld, 

Sae sair a heart to nane o's a* : 
For a' the claith that we hae worn, 
Frae her and her's sae aften shorn, 
The loss o' her we cou'd hae born, 

Had fair strae-death ta'en her awa'. 
The loss o' her we cou'd hae born, &c. 

But thus, poor thing, to lose her life, 
Aneath a bleedy villain's knife, 
I'm really fley't that our guidwife 

Will never win aboon't ava : 
O ! a' ye bards benorth Kinghorn, 
Call your muses up and mourn, 
Our Ewie wi' the crookit horn, 

Stown frae's, and fellt and a' ! 
Our Ewie wi' the crookit horn, &c. 



145 



CRAIGIE-BURN WOOD.* 



It is remarkable of this air, that it is the con- 
jine of that country where the greatest part of our 
Lowland music, {so far as from the title, words, fyc. 
we can localize it,) has been composed. From Crai- 
gie-burn, near Moffat, until one reaches the West 
Highlands, we have scarcely one slow air of any 
antiquity. 

The song was composed on a passion which a Mr. 
Gillespie, a particular friend of mine, had for a 
Miss Lorimer, afterwards a Mrs. Whelpdale. — The 
young lady was bom at Craigie-burn wood. — The 
chorus is part of an old foolish ballad. — 

Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie, 
And O to be lying beyond thee, 

O sweetly, soundly, weel may he sleep, 
That's laid in the bed beyond thee. 

* a Craigie-burn wood is situated on the banks of the river 
Moffat, and about three miles distant from the village of that 
name, celebrated for its medicinal waters, The woods of 
. Craigie-burn and of Dumcrief, were at one time favourite haunts 
of Burns. It was there he met the " Lassie wi' the lint-white 
locks," and that he conceived several of his beautiful lyrics." 

Dr. Currie. 
VOL, II. I* 



146 



CRAIGIE-BURN WOOD. 



Sweet closes the evening on Craigie-burn wood, 

And blythely awakens the morrow ; 
But the pride of the spring in the Craigie-burn 
wood, 
Can yield me to nothing but sorrow. 
Beyond thee, fyc. 

I see the spreading leaves and flowers, 

I hear the wild birds singing ; 
But pleasure they hae nane for me, 

While care my heart is wringing. 
Beyond thee, fyc. 

I canna tell, I maun na tell, 

I dare na for your anger ; 
But secret love will break my heart, 

If I conceal it langer. 

Beyond thee, fyc. 

I see thee gracefii', straight and tall, 

I see thee sweet and bonie, 
But oh, what will my torments be, 

If thou refuse thy Johuie ! 
Beyond thee, fyc. 

To see thee in anither's arms, 
In love to lie and languish, 



147 

Twad be my dead, that will be seen. 
My heart wad burst wi' anguish. 
Beyond thee, fyc. 

But Jeanie, say thou wilt be mine, 
Say, thou lo'es nane before me ; 

And a' my days o J life to come, 
I'll gratefully adore thee. 
Beyond thee, fyc. 



FRAE THE FRIENDS AND LAND I LOVE, 

I ADDED the four last lines by way of giving a 
turn to the theme of the poem, such as it is. 

Frae the friends and land I love, 

Driv'n by fortune's felly spite ; 
Frae my best belov'd I rove, 

Never mair to taste delight, 
Never mair maun hope to find 

Ease frae toil, relief frae care, 
When remembrance racks the mind, 

Pleasures but unveil despair. 
l 2 



148 

Brightest climes shall mirk appear, 

Desart ilka blooming shore ; 
Till the fates, nae mair severe, 

Friendship, love and peace restore. 
Till revenge wi' laurel d head 

Bring our banish'd hame again; 
And ilk loyal, bonie lad, 

Cross the seas and win his ain. 



ANDRO TV1 HIS CUTTIE GUN. 

This blythsome song, so full of Scottish humour 
and convivial merriment, is an intimate favourite 
at Bridal Trystes, and House-heatings. It contains 
a spirited picture of a country ale-house touched off 
with all the lightsome gaiety so peculiar to the rural 
muse of Caledonia, when at a fair. 

Instead of the line, 

" Girdle cakes weel toasted brown," 
I have heard it sung, 

" Knuckled cakes weel brandert brown." 



149 

These cakes are kneaded out with the knuckles, 
and toasted over the red embers of wood on a grid- 
iron. They are remarkably fine, and have a deli- 
cate relish when eaten warm with ale. On winter 
market nights the landlady heats them, and drops 
them into the quaigh to warm the ale : 

" Weel does the cannie Kimmer ken 
To gar the swats gae glibber down." 



Blyth, blyth, blyth was she, 

Blyth was she butt and ben ; 
And well she loo'd a Hawick gill, 

And leugh to see a tappit hen. 
She took me in, and set me down, 

And heght to keep me lawing-free; 
But, cunning carling that she was, 

She gart me birle my bawbie. 

We loo'd the liquor well enough ; 

But waes my heart my cash was done 
Before that I had quench'd my drowth, 

And laith I was to pawn my shoon. 



150 

When we had three times toom'd our stoup, 
And the niest chappin new begun, 

Wha started in to heeze our hope, 
But Andro w? his cutty gun. 

The carling brought her kebbuck ben, 

With girdle-cakes w r eel-toasted brown, 
Well does the canny kimmer ken, 

They gar the swats gae glibber down. 
We ca'd the bicker aft about; 

Till dawning^ we ne'er jee'd our bun, 
And ay the cleanest drinker out 

Was Andro wi' his cutty gun. 

He did like ony mavis sing, 

And as I in his oxter sat, 
He ca'd me ay his bonny thing, 

And mony a sappy kiss i gat: 
I hae been east, I hae been west, 

I hae been far ayont the sun ; 
But the blythest lad that e'er I saw 

Was Andro wi' his cutty gun !* 

* In a country ale-house of the time of this song, were seen 
mud walls lackered with lime; a chimney-piece hung with 
quaiglis and chappin stoups. In the corner a huge barrel of home- 
brewed ale, and a corner-cupboard, where the " cunning Car- 

line" 



151 



HUGH1E GRAHAM,* 

THERE are several editions of this ballad. — 
This, here inserted, is from oral tradition in Ayr- 
shire, where, when I was a boy, it was a popular 
song. — It originally, had a simple old tune, which 
I have forgotten. 



line" held her * Girdle Cakes weel toasted brown? A little win- 
dow, with oaken boards, hung on leather hinges, and two panes 
of coarse glass ; the window-cheeks pasted over with ballads, 
and favourite songs. Before the window was placed the oaken 
table, encircled by a motley company : — old men, with broad 
blue bonnets, wide boot-hose, and long staffs, which they held 
by the middle when they walked. Mixing with these, were the 
young lads with their sweethearts sitting on their knees, with the 
old narrative landlord repeating his jests three times turned* The 
pushing about of stoups 5— the old men telling tales of parish 
quarrels and private squabbles •— the lasses singing songs ; — and 
the lads wooing at intervals, form altogether a whimsical and ori- 
ginal groupe, which is not easily so well and so happily sketched 
as in u Andrew wV his cuttie gun" 



* Bums did not chuse to be quite correct in stating that this 
copy of the ballad of Hughie Graham is printed from oral tradi- 
tion in Ayrshire. The truth is, that four of the stanzas are either 
altered or super-added by himself. 

Of this number the third and eighth are original ; the ninth 
and tenth have received his corrections. Perhaps pathos was 

never 



152 



HUGHIE GRAHAM. 



Our lords are to the mountains gane, 
A hunting o' the fallow deer, 

And they have gripet Hughie Graham 
For stealing o* the bishop's mare. 



never more touching than in the picture of the hero singling out 
his poor aged father from the crowd of spectators ; and the sim- 
ple grandeur of preparation for this afflicting circumstance in the 
verse that immediately precedes it is matchless. 

That the reader may properly appreciate the value of Burns's 
touches, I here subjoin two verses from the most correct copy of 
the ballad, as it is printed in the Border Minstrelsy, vol. ii. 
p. 324. 

w He looked over his left shoulder, 
And for to see what he might see ; 
There was he aware of his anld father, 
Came tearing his hair most piteouslie. 

" O hald your tongue, my father, he says, 
And see that ye dinna weep for me ! 
For they may ravish me o' my life, 
But they canna banish me from heaven hie!" 

The Grahames were a warlike and restless clan, who held the 
debatable land on the Scotish border by the uncertain and dan- 
gerous tenure of plundering warfare. Though mostly Scotch- 
men, we find them on the skirts of the English armies, when 

they 



153 

And they have tied him hand and foot, 
And led him up, thro' Stirling town ; 

The lads and lasses met him there, 

Cried, Hughie Graham thou'rt a loun. 

O lowse my right hand free, he says, 
And put my braid sword in the same ; 

He's no in Stirling town this day, 

Dare tell the tale to Hughie Graham. 

Up then bespake the brave Whitefoord, 
As he sat by the bishop's knee, 

Five hundred white stots Til gie you 
If ye'll let Hughie Graham free. 



they ravaged the land, sharing the spoils of their country. In- 
deed they considered themselves independent, and flew to arms 
with the prevailing party, making cruel havoc, and ultimately 
filling their fastnesses with the spoil of either kingdom. 

They felt much hampered in the time of peace, when the 
Scotish and English Wardens found leisure to ascertain the 
bounds of sovereign property. Their aid and assistance was of 
easy purchase, and (if we may place any faith on an old song) 
was reckoned equivalent to the strength of an army. 

1 i the Graemes, the gallant Graemes, 

Wad the gallant Graemes but stand by me, 
The dogs might douke in English blude, 
Ere a foot's breadth I wad flinch or flee.' 



3 54 

O haud your tongue, the bishop says, 
And wi' your pleading let me be ; 

For tho' ten Grahams were in his coat, 
Hughie Graham this day shall die. 

Up then bespake the fair Whitefoord, 
As she sat by the bishop's knee ; 

Tive hundred white pence I'll gie you, 
If ye'll gie Hughie Graham to me. 

O haud your tongue now lady fair, 
And wi' your pleading let it be ; 

Altho' ten Grahams were in his coat, 
Its for my honor he maun die. 

They've ta'en him to the gallows knowe, 
He looked to the gallows tree, 

Yet never colour left his cheek, 
Nor ever did he blink his ee. 

At length he looked round about, 
To see whatever he could spy : 

And there he saw his auld father, 
And he was weeping bitterly. 

O haud your tongue, my father dear, 
And wi' your weeping let it be ; 

Thy weeping's sairer on my heart, 
Than a' that they can do to me. 



155 

And ye may gie my brother John, 

My sword that's bent in the middle clear., 

And let him come at twelve o'clock, 
And see me pay the bishop's mare. 

And ye may gie my brother James 

My sword that's bent in the middle brown. 

And bid him come at four o'clock, 
And see his brother Hugh cut down. 

Remember me to Maggy my wife, 
The neist time ye gang o'er the moor, 

Tell her she staw the bishop's mare, 
Tell her she was the bishop's whore. 

And ye may tell my kith and kin, 
I never did disgrace their blood ; 

And when they meet the bishop's cloak, 
To mak it shorter by the hood. 



156 



THE BONNY ERLE OP MURRAY. 

THE last verse of this old fragment is beautiful 
and affecting. 

Ye Highlands and ye Lawlands, 

Oh ! where have you been ? 
They have slain the Erie of Murray, 

And they laid him on the green ! 

Now wae be to thee, Huntly ! 

And wherefore did you sae ? 
I bade you bring him wi' you, 

But forbade you him to slay. 

He was a bra* gallant, 

As e'er rid at the ring, 
And the bonny Erie of Murray, 

Oh ! he might hae been a king. 

He was a bra' gallant, 

As e'er played at the ba', 
And the bonny Erie of Murray 

Was the flower amang them a'. 



He was a bra' gallant, 

As e'er played at the glove, 

And the bonny Erie of Murray, 
Oh ! he was the queen's love. 

Oh ! lang will his ladie 

Look o'er the Castle Down, 

Ere she see the Erie of Murray 
Come sounding through the town ! 



A SOUTHLAND JENNY. 

THIS is a popular Ayrshire song, though the 
notes were never taken down before. — It, as well as 
many of the ballad tunes in this collection, was 
written from Mrs. Burns 7 s voice. 

A Southland Jenny that was right bonny, 
Had for a suitor a Norland Johnnie, 
But he was sicken a bashfu > wooer, 
That he could scarcely speak unto her. 



us 



But blinks o' her beauty, and hopes o' her siller, 
Forced him at last to tell his mind till her ; 
My dear, quo' he, we'll nae langer tarry, 
Gin ye can lo'e me, let's o'er the moor and marry. 

Come awa then, my Norland laddie, 
Tho' we gang neat, some are mair gaudy ; 
Albeit I hae neither land nor money, 
Come, and I'll ware my beauty on thee. 

Ye lasses o' the South, ye're a' for dressin ; 
Lasses o' the North, mind milkin and threshin ; 
My minnie wad be angry, and sae wad my daddie, 
Should I marry ane as dink as a lady. 

I maun hae a wife that will rise i' the mornin, 
Cruddle a' the milk, and keep the house a scauldin ; 
Tulzie wi' her neebors, and learn at my minnie, 
A Norland Jocky maun hae a Norland Jenny. 

My father's only dochter, wi' farms and siller ready, 
Wad be ill bestowed upon sic a clownish body ; 
A' that I said was to try what was in thee, 
Gae hame, ye Norland Jockie, and court your Nor- 
land Jenny! 



159 



MY TOCHERS THE JEWEL. 

THIS tune is claimed by 'Nathaniel Gow. — It is 
notoriously taken from The Muckin o' Geordie's 
Byre. — It is also to be found, long prior to Nathaniel 
Gow's &ra, in AircTs Selection of Airs and Marches, 
the first edition, under the name of The Highway 
to Edinburgh.* 

O meikle thinks my luve o' my beauty, 
And meikle thinks my luve o' my kin ; 

But little thinks my luve, I ken brawlie, 
My Tocher's the jewel has charms for him. 

It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree, 
It's a' for the hinney hell cherish the bee ; 

My laddie's sae meikle in love wi' the siller, 
He carina hae luve to spare for me. 

* This statement] is incorrect. On referring to Niel Gow and 
Son's 2d book, page 18, it will be seen that it is unclaimed by 
Nathaniel Gow, or any of his family, Mr. Gow fonnd the tune 
in u Oswald's Caledonian Pocket Companion," book 3d, page 28, 
as a quick jig ; it struck him that it would be pretty if slow ; and 
being without a name, he called it Lord Elcho's Favourite. 
Oswald's book was published as long prior to Aird's aera, as 
Aird's was to that of Gow. — Ed. 



160 

Your proffer o' luve's an airle-penny, 
My Tocher's the bargain ye wad buy ; 

But an' ye be crafty, I am cunnin, 

Sae ye wi' anither your fortune maun try, 

Ye're like to the timmer o' yon rotten wood, 
Ye're like to the bark o' yon rotten tree ; 

Ye'U slip frae me like a knotless thread, 

And ye'U crack your credit wi' mae nor me. # 



* The four last lines of this song are old. I have seen them in 
an unpublished MS. Collection by David Herd, the Editor of 
" Ancient and Modern Scottish Songs, Heroic Ballads" &c. 2 vols. 
1776.— the two lines, 

u It's d for the apple he'll nourish the tree, 
Ifs a 9 for the hinney he'll cherish the bee ;" 

are also much older than Burns's words. — Ed. 



161 



THEN GUDE WIFE COUNT THE LAWIN. 

The chorus of this is part of an old song, one 
stanza of which I recollect. 

Every day my wife tells me 
That ale and brandy will ruin me ; 
But if gude liquor be my dead, 
This shall be written on my head^— 
gude wife count, fyc. 



THERE LL NEVER BE PEACE TILL JAMIE 
COMES HAME. 

THIS tune is sometimes called, There's few gude 
Fellows when Willie's awa. — But I never hate been 
able to meet with any thing else of the song than 
the title. 

By yon castle wa' ? at the close of the day, 
I heard a man sing tho' his head it was gray : 
And as he was singing the tears down came — 
There'll never be peace 'till Jamie comes hame. 

VOL. II. M 



162 

The church is in ruins, the state is in jars, 
Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars : 
We dare na weel say't, but we ken wha's to blame — 
There'll never be peace 'till Jamie comes hame. 

My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword, 
And now I greet round their green beds in the yerd j 
It brak the sweet heart o' my faithfu' auld dame — 
There'll never be peace 'till Jamie comes hame. 

Now life is a burden that bows me down, 
Sin I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown ; 
But till my last moment my words are the same — 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 



163 



THE CARL OF KELLYBURN BRAES. 

THESE words are mine ; I composed them from 
the old traditionary verses. 

There lived a carl on Kellyburn braes, 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 

And he had a wife was the plague o' his days ; 

And the thyme it is wither'd and the rue is in 
prime. 

Ae day as the carl gaed up the lang glen, 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 

He met wi' the devil ; says, " How do yow fen ?" 
And the thyme it is wither'd and the rue is in 
prime. 

" I've got a bad wife, sir ; that's a' my complaint ; 

Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 
For, saving your presence, to her ye're a saint ; 

And the thyme it is wither'd and the rue is in 
prime." 

" It's neither your stot nor your staig I shall crave, 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 
But gie me your wife, man, for her I must have, 
And the thyme it is wither'd and the rue is in 
prime/' 

M 2 



164 

" O welcome, most kindly," the blythe carl said, 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 

But if ye can match her, ye're waur nor ye're ca'd, 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is in 
prime." 

The devil has got the auld wife on his back ; 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie w? thyme) 
And, like a poor pedlar, he's carried his pack; 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is in 
prime. 

He's carried her hame to his ain hallan-door; 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 
Syne bade her gae in, for a bitch and a whore, 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is in 
prime. 

Then straight he makes fifty, the pick o' his band, 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 

Turn out on her gaurd in the clap of a hand ; 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is in 
prime. 

The carlin gaed thro' them like ony wude bear, 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 

Whae'er she gat hands on came near her nae mair; 
And the thyme it is withered, and the rue is in 
prime. 



165 

A reekit wee devil looks over the wa'; 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 
O, help, master, help, or she'll ruin us a', 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is in 
prime." 

The devil he swore by the edge o' his knife, 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 

He pitied the man that was tied to a wife ; 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is in 
prime. 

The devil he swore by the kirk and the bell, 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 

He was not in wedlock, thank heaven, but in hell ; 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is in 
prime. 

Then satan has travelled again wi' his pack ; 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 
And to her auld husband he's carried her back ; 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is in 
prime. 

u I hae been a devil the feck o' my life ; 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 
But ne'er was in hell, till I met wi' a wife ; 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is in 
prime. 



166 



I DO CONFESS THOU ART SAE FAIR. 

THIS song is altered from a poem by Sir Robert 
Ayton, private secretary to Mary and Anne, queens 
of Scotland, — The poem is to be found in James 
Watson's collection of Scots poems. I think that I 
have improved the simplicity of the sentiments, by 
giving them a Scots dress. 

I do confess thou art so fair, 

I wad been o'er the lugs in luve ; 
Had I na found the slightest prayer 

That lips could ..peak, thy heart could muve. 

I do confess thee sweet, but find 
Thou art sae thriftless o' thy sweets, 

Thy favors are the silly wind 
That kisses ilka thing it meets. 

See yonder rose-bud, rich in dew, 

Amang its native briers sae coy, 
How sune it tines its scent and hue 

When pu'd and worn a common toy ! 



167 

Sic fate e'er lang shall thee betide, 
Tho' thou may gayly bloom a while ; 

Yet sune thou shalt be thrown aside, 
Like ony common weed and vile.* 

* The following are the old words of this song : 

I do confess thou 'rt smooth and fair, 
And I might have gone near to love thee ; 

Had I not found the slightest prayer 
That lips could speak, had power to move thee: 

But I can let thee now alone 

As worthy to be lov'd by none. 

I do confess thou'rt sweet, yet rind 
Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets, 

Thy favours are but like the wind 
That kisseth every thing it meets. 

And since thou can'st with more than one, 

Thou'rt worthy to be kiss'd by none. 

The morning rose, that untouch'd stands, 
Arm'd with her briars, how sweetly smells ! 

But pluck'd and strain'd through ruder hands, 
Her sweet no longer with her dwells ; 

But scent and beauty both are gone, 

And leaves fall from her, one by one. 

Such fate, ere long, will thee betide, 
When thou hast handled been awhile! 

Like sere flowers to be thrown aside, 
And I shall sigh, while some will smile, 

To see thy love to every one 

Hath brought thee to be lov'd by none ! 



This 



168 



THE SOGER LADDIE. 



THE first terse of this is old; the rest is by 
Ramsay. — The tune seems to be the same with a 
slow air, called Jacky Hume's Lament — or, The 
Hollin Buss — or, Ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has 



gotten ? 



WHERE WAD BONIE ANNIE LIE. 

The old name of this tune is — 
Whare'll our Gudeman lie. 
A silly old stanza of it runs thus — 

O whare'll our gudeman lie, 
Gudeman lie, gudeman lie, 

O whare'll our gudeman lie, 
Till he shute o'er the simmer ? 



This song may be seen in Playford's Select Ayres, 1659, folio, 
under the title of a Song to a forsaken Mistresse. 

It is also printed in Ellis's Specimens of tlie early English Poets, 
yoI. iii. p. 325. 



169 

Up amang the hen-bawks, 

The hen-bawks, the hen-bawks, 

Up amang the hen-bawks, 
Amang the rotten timmer. 



GALLOWAY TAM. 



I hate seen an interlude acted at a wedding to 
this tune, called, The Wooing of the Maiden. — 
These entertainments are now much worn out in 
this part of Scotland. — Two are still retained in 
Nithsdale, viz. Silly puir auld Glenae ; and this one, 
The Wooing of the Maiden. 



AS I CAM DOWN BY YON CASTLE WA . 

THIS is a wry popular Ayrshire song. 

As I cam down by yon castle wa', 

And in by yon garden green, 
O there I spied a bonnie bonnie lass, 

But the flower-borders were us between, 



170 

A bonie bonie lassie she was, 
As ever mine eyes did see ; 

five hundred pounds would I give, 
For to have such a pretty bride as thee. 

To have such a pretty bride as me ! 

Young man ye are sairly mistaken ; 
Tho' ye were king o' fair Scotland, 

I wad disdain to be your queen. 

Talk not so very high, bonnie lass, 

O talk not so very, very high ; 
The man at the fair that wad sell, 

He maun learn at the man that wad buy. 

1 trust to climb a far higher tree, 

And herry a far richer nest : 
Tak this advice o' me, bonnie lass, 
Humility wad set thee best 



171 

O, FOR ANE AND TWENTY, TAM. 
Tune — The Moudiewort. 
This song is mine. 

An' O, for ane and twenty, Tarn ! 

An' hey, sweet ane and twenty, Tarn ! 
I'll learn my kin a rattling sang, 

An' I saw ane and twenty, Tarn ! 

They snool me sair, and haud me down, 
And gar me look like Blundie, # Tarn ! 

But three short years will soon wheel roun', 
And then comes ane and twenty, Tarn ! 

An Oyfor ane and twenty, Tarn! 

An\%ey, sweet ane and twenty, Tarn I 
Til learn my kin a rattlin sang. 

An! I saw ane and twenty, Tarn! 

* 'IThis looks just like Jock Blunt himsel" 

This is commonly said of a person who is out of countenance 
at a disappointment. — Jamieson. 



172 

A gleib o' Ian', a claut o' gear, 
Was left me by my auntie, Tam ; 

At kith or kin I need na' spier, 
An' I saw ane and twenty, Tarn. 

An 9 0,for, fyc. 

They'll hae me wed a wealthy coof, 
Tho' I mysel hae plenty, Tarn ; 

But hears't thou, laddie, there's my loof, 
I'm thine at ane and twenty, Tarn ! 

Ari O,for, fyc. 



LORD RONALD MY SON. 

THIS air, a very favourite one in Ayrshire, is 
evidently the original of Lochaber.— In this manner, 
most of our finest more modern airs have had their 
origin. Some early minstrel, or musical shepherd, 
composed the simple artless original air; which 
being picked up by the more learned musician, took 
the improved form it bears. 



175 



LOGAN BRAES. 

THERE were two old songs to this tune; one of 
them contained some striking lines, the other entered 
into the sweets of wooing rather too freely for mo- 
dern poetry.— It began, 

" Ae simmer night on Logan braes, 
I helped a bonie lassie on wi' her claes, 
First wi' her stockins, an* syne wi' her shoon, 
But she gied me the glaiks whan a 5 was done." 

The other seems older, but it is not characteristic of 
Scottish courtship. 

" Logan Water's wide and deep, 
An' laith am I to weet my feet ; 
But gif ye'll consent to gang wi* me, 
HI hire a horse to carry thee."* 

* In a letter to a Correspondent, dated 7th April, 1793, 
Burns says, " I remember the two last lines of a verse in some 
of the old songs of Logan Water, which I think pretty. 

u Now my dear lad maun face his faes, 
Far, far frae me and Logan braes." 

The song which Burns thus hastily alludes to was written in 
Glasgow, near thirty years ago, by the gentleman whose name 

is 



174 



O ER THE MOOR AMANG THE HEATHER. 

This song is the composition of a Jean Glover, a 
girl who was not only a w — e, but also a thief; and 



is here prefixed to it. It was first printed in the Star newspaper, 
May 23, 1789, signed with the initial letter of the author's sur- 
name. Several years, however, antecedent to this period, Logan 
Water had acquired popularity, and was well known in the 
south-west part of Scotland. 

LOGAN WATER. 

BY JOHN MAYNE. 

By Logan's streams that rin sae deep, 
Fu' aft', wi' glee, I've herded sheep, 
I've herded sheep, or gather'd slaes, 
Wi* my dear lad, on Logan Braes : 
But, wae's my heart, thae days are gaue, 
And, fu' o' grief, I herd my lane ; 
While my dear lad maun face his faes, 
Far, far frae me and Logan Braes ! 

Nae mair at Logan Kirk will he, 
Atween the preachings, meet wi' me — 
Meet wi' me, or, when it's mirk, 
Convoy me hame frae Logan Kirk ! 
I weil may sing, thae days are gane — 
Frae Kirk and Fair I come my lane, 
While my dear lad maun face his faes, 
Far, far frae me and Logan Braes ! 



175 

in one or other character has visited most of the 
Correction Houses in the West. — She was born, I 
believe, in Kilmarnock: — / took the song down 
f?vm her singing as she was strolling through the 
country, with a slight-of-hand blackguard. 

Comin' thro' the Craigs o' Kyle, 

Amang the bonnie blooming heather, 

There I met a bonnie lassie, 

Keeping a ? her yowes thegither, 
O'er the moor amang the heather, 
O'er the moor amang the heather, 
There I met a bonnie lassie, 
Keeping a 9 her yowes thegither. 

Says I my dearie where is thy hame, 
In moor or dale pray tell me whether ? 
She says, I tent the fleecy flocks 
That feed amang the blooming heather, 
O'er the moor, fyc. 

We laid us down upon a bank, 
Sae warm and sunny was the weather, 
She left her flocks at large to rove 
Amang the bonnie blooming heather. 
O'er the moor, fyc. 



176 

While thus we lay she sang a sang, 
Till echo rang a mile and farther, 
And ay the burden o' the sang 
Was — o'er the moor amang the heather. 
O'er the moor, fyc. 

She charm'd my heart, and aye sinsyne, 
I could na think on any ither : 
By sea and sky she shall be mine ! 
The bonnie lass amang the heather* 
O'er the moor, fyc. 



177 



TO THE ROSE BUIK 



THIS song is the composition of a Johnson, 

a joiner in the neighbourhood of Belfast. —The tune 
is by Oswald , altered, evidently, from Jockie's Gray 
Breeks. 

All hail to thee thou bawmy bud, 
Thou charming child o' simmer, hail ; 
Ilk fragrant thorn and lofty wood 
Does nod thy welcome to the vale. 

See on thy lovely faulded form, 
Glad Phoebus smiles wi' chearing eye. 
While on thy head the dewy morn 
Has shed the tears o' silent joy. 

The tuneful tribes frae yonder bower, 
Wi' sangs of joy thy presence hail ; 
Then haste, thou bawmy fragrant flower, 
And gie thy bosom to the gale. 

And see the fair industrious bee, 
With airy wheel and soothing hum, 
Flies ceaseless round thy parent tree, 
While gentle breezes trembling come, 

VOL, II. N 



178 

If ruthless Liza pass this way, 
She'll pou thee frae thy thorny stem ; 
Awhile thou'lt grace her virgin breast, 
But soon thou'lt fade, my bonny gem. 

Ah, short, too short, thy rural reign, 
And yield to fate, alas ! thou must : 
Bright emblem of the virgin train, 
Thou blooms alas ! to mix wi' dust, 

Sae bonny Liza hence may learn, 
Wi' every youthfu' maiden gay, 
That beauty, like the simmer's rose, 
In time shall wither and decay. 



179 



YON WILD MOSSY MOUNTAINS. 

This tune is by Oswald. The song alludes to a 
part of my private history, which it is of no con- 
sequence to the world to know. 

Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide, 
That nurse in their bosom the youth o' the Clyde, 
Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the heather 

to feed, 
And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes on his 

reed. 

Where the grouse 9 fyc. 

Not Gowrie's rich valley, nor Forth's sunny shores, 
To me hae the charms o' yon wild, mossy moors ; 
For there, by a lanely, and sequester'd stream, 
Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my dream. 

Amang thae wild mountains shall still be my path, 
Ilk stream foaming down its ain green, narrow strath ; 
For there, wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove, 
While o'er us unheeded, flie the swift hours o' lover 



N 2 



180 

She is not the fairest, altho' she is fair ; 
CV nice education but sma' is her share ; 
Her parentage humble as humble can be ; 
But I lo'e the dear lassie because she lo'es me.* 

To beauty what man but maun yield him a prize, 
In her armour of glances, and blushes, and sighs ; 
And when wit and refinement ha'e polish'd her darts, 
They dazzle our een, as they fly to our hearts. 

But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond sparkling 

e'e, 
Has lustre outshining the diamond to me ; 
And the heart-beating love, as I'm clasp'd in her 

arms, 
O, these are my lassie's all-conquering charms ! 



* " I love my love because I know my love loves me." 

Maid in Bedhm , 



181 



IT IS NA, JEAN, THY BONIE FACE. 

These were originally English verses: — I gave 
them their Scotch dress. 

It is na, Jean, thy bonie face, 

Nor shape that I admire, 
Altho' thy beauty and thy grace 

Might weel awauk desire. 
Something in ilka part o' thee 

To praise, to love, I find ; 
But dear as is thy form to me, 

Still dearer is thy mind. 

Nae mair ungen'rous wish I hae, 

Nor stronger in my breast, 
Than, if I canna mak thee sae, 

At least to see thee blest. 
Cofotent am I, if heaven shall give 

But happiness to thee : 
And as wi' thee I'd wish to live, 

For thee I'd bear to die. 



182 



EPPIE M'NAB. 



The old song, with this title, has more wit than 
decency. 



WHA IS THAT AT MY BOWER DOOR. 

This tune is also known hy the name of Lass an 
I come near thee, The words are mine. 

Wha is that at my bower door ? 

O wha is it but Findlay ;— 
Then gae your gate ye'se nae be here ! 

Indeed maun I, quo' Findlay. 
What mak )e sae like a thief? 

O come and see, quo' Findlay ; — 
Before the morn ye'll work mischief; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 

Gif I rise and let you in ? 

Let me in, quo' Findlay ; — 
Ye'll keep me waukin wi' your din 5 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 



183 



In my bower if ye should stay i 

Let me stay, quo' Findlay ; — 
I fear ye'll bide till break o' day ; 

Indeed will I r quo' Findlay. 

Here this night if ye remain ? 

I'll remain, quo' Findlay ; — 
I dread ye'll learn the gate again ; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay ; 
What may pass within this bower ; 

Let it pass, quo' Findlay ; — 
Ye maun conceal 'till your last hour ; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay ! # 

* Mr. Gilbert Burns told the Editor that this song was sug- 
gested to his brother by the ' Auld Man's Address to the Widow, 
printed in Ramsay's Tea Table Miscellany, which the Poet first 
heard, sung before he had seen that Collection, by a Jean Wilson, 
a silly old widow-woman, then living at Tarbolton, remarkable 
for the simplicity and naivete' of her character, and for singing 
old Scotch songs with a peculiar energy and earnestness of man- 
ner. Having outlived her family, she still retained the form of 
family worship : and before she sung a hymn, she would gravely 
give out the first line of the verse as if she had a numerous au 
dience, to the great diversion of her listening neighbours. 



184 



THOU ART GANE AWA. 



THIS tune is the same with, Haud awa frae me, 
Donald. 



THE TEARS I SHED MUST EVER FALL. 

THIS song was composed by Miss Cranston.* — 
It wanted four lines to make all the stanzas suit the 
music, which I added, and are the four first of 
the last stanza. 

The tears I shed must ever fall ; 

I weep not for an absent swain, 
For time can past delights recal, 

And parted lovers meet again. 
I weep not for the silent dead, 

Their toils are past, their sorrows o'er, 
And these they lov'd their steps shall tread, 

And death shall join to part no more. 

* This lady is now married to Professor Dugald Stewart, of 
Edinburgh. 



185 

Though boundless oceans roll between, 

If certain that his heart is near, 
A conscious transport glads the scene, 

Soft is the sigh and sweet the tear. 
Ev'n when by death's cold hand remov'd, 

We mourn the tenant of the tomb ; 
To think that ev'n in death he lov'd 

Can cheer the terrors of the gloom. 

But bitter, bitter is the tear 

Of her who slighted love bewails, 
No hopes her gloomy prospect cheer, 

No pleasing melancholy hails. 
Her's are the pangs of wounded pride, 

Of blasted hope, and withered joy : 
The prop she lean'd on pierc'd her side, 

The flame she fed burns to destroy. 

In vain does memory renew 

The scenes once ting'd in transport's dye; 
The sad reverse soon meets the view, 

And turns the thought to agony, 
Ev'n conscious virtue cannot cure 

The pang to e\ 9 ry feeling due ; 
Ungen'rous youth, thy boast how poor ? 

To steal a heart, and break it too ] 



186 

No cold approach, no alter'd mien, 

Just what would make suspicion start; 
No pause the dire extremes between, 

He made me blest — and broke my heart ! 
Hope from its only anchor torn, 

Neglected and neglecting all, 
Friendless, forsaken, and forlorn, 

The tears I shed must ever fall. 



THE BONIE WEE THING. 

COMPOSED on my little idol, " The charming, 
lovely Davies" 

Bonie wee thing, canie wee thing, 
Lovely wee thing was thou mine ; 

I wad wear thee in my bosom, 
Lest my jewel I should tine. 

Wishfully I look and languish, 

In that bonie face of thine ; 
And my heart it stounds wi' anguish, 

Lest my wee thing be na mine. 



187 

Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty, 

In ae constellation shine ; 
To adore thee is my duty, 

Goddess o' this soul o' mine ! 

Bonie wee thing, fyc. 



THE TITHER MORN. 



THIS tune is originally from the Highlands. — I 
have heard a Gaelic song to it, which I was told 
was very clever, but not by any means a Jady's 
song. 



A MOTHERS LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF 
HER SON. 

Tune — Finla.yston House. 

This most beautiful tune is, I think, the happiest 
composition of that bard-born genius, John Riddel, 
of the family of Glencarnock, at Ayr.— The words 



158 

were composed to commemorate the much lamented, 
and premature death of James Ferguson, Esq.jun. 
of Craigdarroch. 

Fate gave the word, the arrow sped, 

And pierc'd my darling's heart ; 
And with him all the joys are fled 

Life can to me impart. 
By cruel hands the sapling drops, 

In dust dishonoured laid : 
So fell the pride of all my hopes, 

My age's future shade. 

The mother linnet in the brake 

Bewails her ravish'd young ; 
So I, for my lost darling's sake, 

Lament the live-day long. 
Death, oft I've fear'd thy fatal blow, 

Now, fond, I bare my breast, 
O, do thou kindly lay me low, 

With him I love, at rest ! 



DAINTJE DAVIE. 



THIS song, tradition says, and the composition it- 
self confirms it, was composed on the Rev. David 
Williamsons getting the daughter of Lady Cherry- 
trees with child, while a party of dragoons were 



189 

searching her house to apprehend him for being an 
adherent to the solemn league and covenant. — The 
pious woman had put a lady's night-cap on him, 
and had laid him a-bed with her ozon daughter, and 
passed him to the soldiery as a lady, her daughter's 
bed-fellow, — A mutilated stanza or two are to be 
found in Herd's collection, but the original song 
consists offve or six stanzas, and were their delicacy 
equal to their wit and humor, they would merit a 
place in any collection. — The first stanza is,— 

Being pursued by the dragoons, 
Within my bed he was laid down ; 
And well I wat he was worth his room* 
For he was my daintie Davie. 

Ramsay s song, Luckie Nansie, though he calls it an 
old song with additions, seems to be all his own, ex- 
cept the chorus, which 1 should conjecture to be 
part of a song, prior to the affair of Williamson.* 

* The Editor has been honoured with the following communi- 
cation respecting this song from Lord Woodhouselee. 

" I have reason to believe that no part of the words of tkis 
song was written by Ramsay. I have been informed by good 
authority, that the words, as printed in Ramsay's Collection, 
were written by the Hon. Duncan Forbes, Lord President of 
the Court of Session. The words of another Scots air, which 
have much merit, 'Merry may the Maid be that marries the 
Miller,' were written by Sir John Clerk, of Peunicuik, Baron of 
Exchequer in Scotland." 



190 



LUCKY NANSIE. 



While fops in soft Italian verse, 

Ilk fair ane's een and breast rehearse, 
While sangs abound and scene is scarce, 

These lines I have indited : 
But neither darts nor arrows here, 

Venus nor Cupid shall appear, 
And yet with these fine sounds I swear, 

The maidens are delited. 

1" was ay telling you 
Lucky Nansy, Lucky Nansy, 
Auld springs wad ding the new, 
But ye wad never trow me. 

Nor snaw with crimson will I mix, 
To spread upon my lassie's cheeks ; 
And syne th' unmeaning name prefix, 

Miranda, Chloe, or Phillis. 
I'll fetch nae simile frae Jove, 
My height of extasy to prove, 
Nor sighing, — thus — present my love 

With roses eke and lilies. 

I was ay telling you, fyc. 



191 

But stay, — I had amaist forgot 
My mistress and my sang to boot, 
And that's an unco' faut I wate : 

But Nansy, 'tis nae matter. 
Ye see I clink my verse wi' rhime, 
And ken ye, that atones the crime ; 
Forby, how sweet my numbers chime, 

And slide away like water. 

J was ay telling you, &<>c. 

Now ken, my reverend sonsy fair, 
Thy runkled cheeks and lyart hair, 
Thy harT shut een and hodling air, 

Are a' my passion's fewel. 
Nae skyring gowk, my dear, can see, 
Or love, or grace, or heaven in thee ; 
Yet thou hast charms anew for me, 

Then smile, and be na cruel. 

Leez me on thy snawy pow, 
Lucky Nansy, Lucky Nansy, 
Dryest wood will eithest low. 
And Nansy sae will ye now. 

Troth I have sung the sang to you, 
Which ne'er anither bard wad do ; 



127 

Hear then my charitable vow, 

Dear venerable Nansy, 
But if the warld my passion wrang, 
And say, ye only live in sang, 
Ken I despise a sland'ring tongue, 

And sing to please my fancy. 

Iseez me on thy> fyc. 



193 



BOB O DUMBLANE. 

RAMSAYy as usual, has modernized this song. 
The original, which I learned on the spot, from 
my old hostess in the principal inn there is — 

Lassie, lend me your braw hemp heckle, 
And Til lend you my thripplin-kame ; 

My heckle is broken, it canna be gotten, 
And we'll gae dance the bob o' Dumblane. 

Twa gaed to the wood, to the wood, to the wood, 
Twa gaed to the wood — three came hame ; 

An* it be na weel bobbit, weel bobbit, weel bobbit, 
An' it be na weel bobbit, we'll bob it again. 

1 insert this song to introduce the following anec- 
dote, which I have heard well authenticated. In 
the evening of the day of the battle of Dumblane 
(Sheriff Muir) when the action was over, a Scots 
officer in Argyle's army observed to his Grace, that 
he was afraid the rebels would give out to the world 
that they had gotten the victory. — " Weel, weel? 
returned his Grace, alluding to the foregoing ballad, 
€€ if they think it be nae weel bobbit, we'll bob it 
again? 

VOL. II. o 



194 



The following original Letter of Burns affords an 
additional proof of the interest which the Poet took 
in the ancient Minstrelsy of the West of Scotland. — 
Many compositions of this description he rescued 
from oblivion, and sent them to the Scots Musical 
Museum, and it appears to have been his design to 
recover all which were worthy of preservation. Se- 
veral of them underwent his correction and emenda- 
tion, as the subjoined unpublished extract from one 
of his letters will testify. — " The songs marked Z in 
the Museum, I have given to the world as old verses 
to their respective tunes ; but, in fact, of a good 
many of them little more than the chorus is ancient, 
though there is no reason for telling every body this 
piece of intelligence." 



To William Tytler, Esq. of Woodhouselee. 

Sir, 

Inclosed I have sent you a sample of the old 
pieces that are still to be found among our peasantry 
in the West. — I had once a great many of these frag- 



195 

ments, and some of these here entire ; but as I had no 
idea then that any body cared for them, I have forgot- 
ten them. I invariably hold it sacrilege to add any 
thing of my own to help out with the shattered wrecks 
of these venerable old compositions ; but they have 
many various readings. If you have not seen these 
before, I know they will flatter your true old-style 
Caledonian feelings ; at any rate, I am truly happy to 
have an opportunity of assuring you how sincerely I 
am, 

Revered Sir, 
Your gratefully indebted humble servant, 

Robert Burns. 

Lawn Market, Aug. 1790. 



o 2 



J 96 



FRAGMENTS. 



Time — Willie's Rare. 

Nae birdies sang the mirky hour 
Amang the braes o'Yarrow, 

But slumber'd on the dewy boughs 
To wait the waukening morrow. 

Where shall I gang, my ain true love, 
Where shall I gang to hide me ; 

For weel ye ken, i' yere father's bow'r, 
It wad be death to find me. 

O go you to yon tavern house, 
An' there count owre your lawin,* 

An ? if I be a woman true, 
111 meet you in the dawin\ 

* Lawin — reckoning. 



197 

O he's gone to yon tavern house, 
An' ay he counted his lawin, 

An' ay he drank to her guid health, 
Was to meet him in the dawin\ 

O he's gone to yon tavern house, 
An' counted owre his lawin, 

When in there cam' three armed men, 
To meet him in the dawin'. 

O, woe be unto woman's wit, 

It has beguiled many ! 
She promised to come hersel' 

But she sent three men to slay me ! 



Get up, get up, now sister Ann, 
I fear we've wrought you sorrow ; 

Get up, ye'll find your true love slain, 
Among the banks of Yarrow. 

She sought him east, she sought him west, 
She sought him braid and narrow, 

? Till in the clintin of a craig 

She found him drown'd in Yarrow. 



198 

She's ta'en three links of her yellow hair, 
That hung down lang and yellow, 

And she's tied it about sweet Willie's waist, 
An' drawn him out of Yarrow. 



I made my love a suit of clothes, 
I clad him all in tartan, 

But ere the morning sun arose 
He was a' bluid to the gartan. 



Cetera desunt. 



199 



ROB ROY. 
Tune — A rude set of Mill Mill O 

Rob Roy from the Highlands cam 

Unto the Lawlan' border, 
To steal awa a gay ladie, 

To hand his house in order : 
He cam owre the lock o' Lynn, 

Twenty men his arms did carry ; 
Himsel gaed in an' fand her out, 

Protesting he would marry. 

will ye gae wi' me, he says, 
Or will ye be my honey ; 

Or will ye be my wedded wife, 
For I love you best of any : 

1 winna gae wi' you, she says, 

Nor will I be your honey ; 

Nor will I be your wedded wife, 

You love me for my money* 



200 

But he set her on a coal-black steed, 

Himsel lap on behind her ; 
An 5 he's awa to the Highland hills, 

Whare her frien's they canna find her. 



[The song went on to narrate the forcing her to bed; 
when the tnne changes to something like " Jenny dang 
the weaver."] 



Rob Roy was my father ca'd, 

Macgregor was his name, ladie , 
He led a band o ? heroes bauld, 

An' I am here the same ladie. 
Be content, be content, 

Be content to stay, ladie ; 
For thou art my wedded wife 

Until thy dying day, ladie. 

He was a hedge unto his frien's, 
A heckle to his foes, ladie ; 

Every one that durst him wrang, 
He took him by the nose, ladie. 



1201 

I'm as bold, I'm as bold, 

I'm as bold, an' more, ladie ; 
He that daurs dispute my word 

Shall feel my guid claymore, lady. # 

* The history of Rob Roy the reader may find at great length 
in Maclaurin's Criminal Trials. He was the son of the Rob Roy 
Macgregor who figures in the Rebellion, 1715. The short ac- 
count of him is this. He was outlawed by sentence of the Court 
of Justiciary in Scotland, in 1736, for not appearing to stand 
trial for the murder of a man of the name of Maclaren. In this 
state of outlawry , he formed the mad and desperate project of 
carrying off and forcibly accomplishing a marriage with Jane 
Key, heiress of Edinbelly, and thus getting possession of her 
estate. He and his brother James Macgregor, at the head of a 
band of armed ruffians, entered her mother's house, dragged her 
out, and tying her, hand and foot with ropes, laid her across a 
horse, and brought her in this situation to the house of one of 
their clan, in a wild and sequestered part of the mountains of 
Argyleshire ; where, after some show of a marriage ceremony, 
she was put to bed, and forcibly compelled to submit to his 
embraces. 

On a discovery of the place of her concealment she was res- 
cued by her relations, and Rob Roy, and his brother James, were 
tried capitally for the crime. James made his escape from pri- 
son before sentence, was outlawed in consequence, and some 
years afterwards obtained a pardon. Rob Roy was condemned 
and executed, February, 1753. 



2CK 



BONNIE DUNDEE.* 

whare gat ye that hauver-meal bannock, 
O silly blind bodie, O dinna ye see! 

1 got it frae a sodger laddie, 

Between Saint Johnstone and bonnie Dundee. 
O gin I saw the laddie that gae me't ! 

Aft has he doudl'd me on his knee : 
May heav'n protect my bonnie Scotch laddie, 

And sen' him safe hame to his babie and me ! 



* This song was accompanied by the following laconic epistle, 

" Dear Cleghorn, 

u You will see by the above that I have added a stanza to 
1 Bonnie Dundee:' If you think it will do, you may set it 
agoing 

1 Upon a ten-string instrument 
i And on the Psaltery * 

R,B. 

u Mr. Cleghorn, 

" Farmer— God bless the trade." 



203 

May blessins light on thy sweet, wee lippie ! 

May blessins light on thy bonnie ee-bree ! 
Thou smiles sae like my sodger laddie, 

Thou's dearer, dearer ay to me ! 
But I'll big a bow'r on yon bonnie banks, 

Whare Tay rins wimplan by sae clear ; 
An' I'll deed thee in the tartan fine, 

An' mak thee a man like thy daddie dear ! 



204 



YOUNG HYNHORN. 



( To its own Tune.) 



Near Edinburgh was a young son born, 
Hey lilelu an' a how low Ian', 
An' his name it was called young Hynhorn, 
An' its hey down down deedle airo, 

Seven long years he served the king, 

Hey, &c. 

An' it's a' for the sake of his daughter Jean. 

An' it's hey, &c. 

The king an angry man was he, 
He send young Hynhorn to the sea. 

* * * 

An' on his finger she put a ring. 

* #• * 

When your ring turns pale and wan, 
Then I'm in love wi' another man. 



205 



Upon a day he look'd at his ring, 
It was as pale as any thing. 

He's left the sea, an' he's come to the Ian', 
An' there he met an auld beggar man. 

What news, what news, my auld beggar man, 
What news, what news by sea or by Ian'. 

Nae news, nae news, the auld beggar said, 
But the king's dochter Jean is going to be wed. 

Cast aff, cast aff thy auld beggar- weed, 
An' 111 gie thee my gude gray steed. 



When he cam to our guid king's yet, 

He sought a glass o' wine for young Hynhora's sake. 

He drank out the wine an' he put in the ring, 

An' he bade them carry't to the king's dochter Jean. 



O gat ye't by sea, or gat ye't by Ian', 
Or gat ye't aff a dead man's han' f 



206 

I gat na't by sea, I gat na't by Ian', 
But I gat it out of your owu han\ 



Go take away my bridal gown, 

An' I'll follow him frae town to town. 

Ye need na leave your bridal gown, 
For Til make ye ladie o' mony a town. 



207 



Lanely night comes on, 

A' the house are sleeping, 
I think on the bonie lad 

That has my heart a keeping. 
When I sleep I dream, 

When I wank Fm eirie; 
Sleep I canna get, 

For thinkin o y my dearie, 

Lanely night comes on, 

A' the house are sleeping, 
I think on my bonie lad, 

An I bleer my een wi' greetin ! 
Ay wauken, 0, wauken ay and wearie! 
Sleep I canna get, for thinkin o' my dearie. 



STANZA OF AN OLD SONG. 
Tune — Bonnie Dundee, 

Ye're like to the timmer o* yon rotten wood, 
Ye're like to the bark o' yon rotten tree ; 

Ye slip frae me like a knotless thread, 

An' ye'll crack your credit wi' mae than me. 



209 



Among the MS. papers of Burns, that fell into 
the hands of the Editor, was one containing memo- 
randa of Songs that he intended to illustrate with his 
remarks. In the number are noticed the fine ballad 
of ' Donocht Head/ and also the ballad of ' Watty 
and Meg. 9 As the first is but little known in Eng- 
land, and the other not known at all, though it is so 
popular in Scotland, the Editor avails himself of the 
present opportunity to present them to his readersc 



BONOCHT-HEAD, 
Tune — Gordon Castle. 

Keen blaws the wind o'er Donocht-Head, # 

The snaw drives snelly thro' the dale^ 
The Gaberlunzie tirls my sneck, 

And shivering tells his waefu* tale. 
" Cauld is the night, O let me in, 

" And dinna let your minstrel fa', 
** And dinna let his windin-sheet 

w Be naething but a wreath o' snaw : 
* A mountain in the North. 

VOL. II. P 



210 

" Full ninety winters hae I seen, 

" And pip'd where gor-cocks whirring flew, 
" And mony a day ye've danc'd, I ween, 

" To lilts which frae my drone I blew." 
My Eppie wak'd, and soon she cry'd, 

" Get up, Guidman, and let him in ; 
" For weel ye ken the winter night 

" Was short when he began his din." 

My Eppie's voice, O wow it's sweet ! 

E'en tho' she bans and scaulds awee ; 
But when it's tun'd to sorrow's tale, 

O haith, it's doubly dear to me ! 
Come in, auld Carl ! Fll steer my fire, 

I'll mak it bleeze a bonie flame ; 
Your blude is thin, ye've tint the gate, 

Ye should na stray sae far frae hame. 

u Nae hame have I," the minstrel said, 
u Sad party strife o'erturn'd my ha' ; 

cc And, weeping at the eve o' life, 
" I wander thro' a wreath o' snaw. # 



* This affecting poem was long attributed to Burns. He thus 
remarks on it. u Donocht-Head is not mine : I would give ten 
pounds it were. It appeared first in the Edinburgh Herald ; and 
came to the editor of that paper with the Newcastle post-mark 
on it." 



£11 



WATTY AND MEG. 

The reader is here presented with an exquisite 
picture from low life, drawn with all the fidelity and 
exactness of Teniers, or Ostade, and enlivened with 
the humour of Hogarth. The story excites as much 
interest as if it had been written in a dramatic form, 
and really represented. The interest heightens as it 
proceeds, and is supported with wonderful spirit to 
the close of the poem. 

It must have been in no small degree gratifying to 
the feelings of the author, who published it anony- 
mously, that during a rapid sale of seven or eight 
editions, the public universally ascribed it to the pen 
of Burns. The author of c Will and Jean/ or 
i Scotland's Scaith," had the candour to acknow- 
ledge to the Editor that he was indebted to this ex- 
quisite poem for the foundation of that popular per- 
formance. 



p 2 



212 
WATTY AND MEG;* 

OR THE 

WIFE REFORMED. 



BY ALEXANDER WILSON. 



We dream in Courtship, but in Wedlock wake. — Pope. 

Keen the frosty winds war blawin', 

Deep the snaw had wreath'd the ploughs, 

Watty, weary'd a' day sawin',t 
Daunert down to Mungo Blue's. 

* The following sketch of the life of the author of this strik- 
ing performance has been communicated in the most obliging 
manner, by Mr. James Brown, manufacturer, at Paisley : 

" Alexander Wilson, author of Watty and Meg, was born at 
Paisley, in the year 1766. His father, intending him for the 
medical profession, gave him as good an education as his trade of 
a weaver would allow. He, however, entered into a second 
marriage, which put an end to this scheme, unfortunately for 

young 

t Sawing timber. 



213 

Dryster Jock was sitting cracky, 
Wi' Pate Tamson o > the Hill, 

" Come awa'," quo' Johnny, '- Watty ! 
" Haith ! we'se ha'e anither gill." 

Watty, glad to see Jock Jabos, 
And sae mony nei' hours roun', 

Kicket frae his shoon the sna' ba's> 
Syne ayont the fire sat down. 



young Wilson, who at the age of thirteen was put to the loom. 
After an apprenticeship of five years, he became his own mas. 
ter; but his eager passion for reading poetry and novels, absorbed 
most of his time, and left him in a state of constant penury. In 
the year 1786 he gave up his occupation, and travelled the coun- 
try as a pedlar. In 1790 he settled again in Paisley, and pub- 
lished a volume of poems and a journal of his excursions, which 
meeting with poor success, involved him further in pecuniary 
difficulties. He again returned to the loom ; but his favourite 
literary pursuits still engrossed his attention, and the society of 
the young and thoughtless of his own age consumed his time and 
exhausted his means of support. 

Soon after the publication of his poems he became the dupe 
of a worthless fellow, who had been vainly endeavouring to sell 
them, and who persuaded him to write a satire, with a view to 
relieve himself from his embarrassments. The poem being on a 
popular subject, sold rapidly ; but his friend's advice led him be- 
yond the safe bounds of satire, and he incurred a prosecution^ 

by 



214 

Owre a hoord, wi' bannocks heapet, 
Cheese, an' stoups, an* glasses stood ; 

Some war roaring ithers sleepit, 
Ithers quietly chewt their cude. 

Jock was sellm' Pate some tallow, 

A' the rest a racket hel', 
A' but Watty, wha, poor fallow, 

Sat and smoket by himsel\ 



by which he suffered severely. The remembrance of this mis- 
fortune dwelt upon his mind, and rendered him dissatisfied with 
his country. 

Another cause of Wilson's dejection was the rising fame of 
Burns, and the indifference of the public to his own produc- 
tions. He may be said to have envied the Ayrshire bard, and to 
this envy may be attributed his best production, " Watty and 
Meg," which he wrote at Edinburgh in 1793. He sent it to 
Nielson, printer, at Paisley, who had suffered by the publication 
of his former poems. As it was, by the advice of his friends, 
published anonymously, it was generally ascribed to Burns, and 
went rapidly through seven or eight editions. Wilson, however, 
shared no part of the profits, willing to compensate for the for- 
mer losses his publisher had sustained. 

Tired of a country in which the efforts of his genius had been 
rendered abortive by juvenile indiscretions, and apprehensive 
that these might operate as a bar to his future advancement, he 
resolved in the year 1794 or 1795 to embark for America, which 

his 



215 

Mungo fill'd him up a toothfu', 

Drank his health and Meg's in ane ; 

Watty, puffin' out a mouthfu', 
Pledg'd him wi' a dreary grane. 

" What's the matter, Watty, wi' you ? 

u Trouth your chafts are fa'ing in ! 
" Something's wrang — I'm vext to see you- 

" Gudesake ! but ye're desp'rate thin !" 



his warm fancy and independent spirit had taught him to regard 
as the land of liberty. To procure money for his passage he 
laboured with incessant industry, and having accumulated a suf- 
ficient sum, he took his departure. He settled in the state of 
Pennsylvania, where he remained four or five years as a teacher, 
and was afterwards employed for about the same length of time 
as a land surveyor. He then became connected with Mr. 
Samuel Bradford, bookseller and stationer, of Philadelphia, in 
the capacity of editor. He is now engaged in an extensive work 
entitled, " American Ornithology." In pursuit of subjects for 
this performance he has actually traversed a great part of the 
United States, and has been enabled to pursue his favourite di- 
version of shooting. He kills the birds, draws their figures, and 
describes them. 

The following poetical description of the Blue Bird presents 
a very animated and pleasing picture of American scenery and 
seasons, while the slight tincture of Scottish expression which 
here and there appears adds to the naivete of the diction. 

ON 



sift 

u Aye/' quo 5 Watty, " things are alter'd, 
" But it's past redemption now, 

" O ! I wish I had been halter'd 
" When I marry 'd Maggy Howe ! 

" I've been poor, and vext, and raggy, 
" Try'd wi' troubles no that sma' ; 

" Them I bore — but marrying Maggy 
" Laid the cape-stane o' them a\ 



ON THE BLUE BTRB, 

When winter's cold tempests and snows are no more, 
Green meadows and brown-furrow'd lands re-appearing : 
The fishermen hauling their shad to the shore, 
And cloud-cleaving geese to the lakes are a-steering, 
When first the lone butterfly flits on the wing, 
When red glow the maples, so fresh and so pleasing, 
O then comes the blue-bird, the herald of spring, 
And hails with his warblings the charms of the season* 

Then loud piping frogs make the marshes to ring, 
Then warm glows the sunshine, and fine is the weather, 
The blue woodland flowers just beginning to spring, 
And spicewood and sassafras budding together; 
O then to your gardens, ye housewives, repair, 
Your walks border up, sow and plant at your leisure, 
The blue-bird will chant from his box such an air, 
That all your hard toils will seem truly a pleasure. 

He 



£17 

" Night and day she's ever yelping 
" Wi' the weans she ne'er can gree ; 

" Whan she's tir'd wi' perfect skelpin', 
" Then she flees like fire on me. 

" See ye, Mungo ! when she'll clash on 
" Wi' her everlasting clack, 

" Whiles I've had my nieve, in passion, 
" Liftet up to break her back !" 



He flits through the orchard, he visits each tree, 

The red flowering peach, and the apples' sweet blossoms, 

He snaps up destroyers wherever they be, 

And seizes the caitiffs that lurk in their bosoms ; 

He drags the vile grub from the corn it devours, 

The worms from their beds, where they riot and welter, 

His song and his services freely are ours, 

And all that he asks is in summer a shelter. 

The ploughman is pleased when he gleans in his train, 
Now searching the furrows, now mounting to cheer him 
The gardener delights in his sweet simple strain, 
And leans on his spade to survey and to hear him; 
The slow ling'ring school-boys forget they'll be chid, 
While gazing intent as he warbles before 'em, 
In mantle of sky blue, and bosom so red, 
That each little loiterer seems to adore him. 

When 



218 

' O ! for gudesake, keep frae cuffets !' 
Mungo shook his head and said, 

' Weel I ken what sort o' life it's ; 
1 Ken ye, Watty, how I did ? 

4 After Bess and I war kippl'd, 
' Soon she grew like ony bear, 

6 Brak' my shins, and, when I tippl'd, 
6 Harl'd out my very hair ! 



When all the gay scenes of the summer are o'er, 
And autumn slow enters, so silent and sallow, 
And millions of warblers that charm'd us before 
Have fled in the train of the sun-seeking swallow ; 
The blue-bird forsaken, yet true to his home, 
Still lingers and looks for a milder to-morrow, 
'Till forced by the horrors of winter to roam, 
He sings his adieu in a lone note of sorrow. 

While spring's lovely season, serene, dewy, warm, 
The green face of earth, and the pure blue of heaven, 
Or love's native music have influence to charm, 
Or sympathy's glow to our feelings are given ; 
Still dear to each bosom the blue-bird shall be, 
His voice like the thrillings of hope is a treasure, 
For thro' bleakest storms, if a calm he but see, 
He comes to remind us of sunshine and pleasure. 



r 2iy 

1 For a wee I quietly knuckl'd, 

1 But whan naethiug wad prevail, 
* Up my claes and cash I buckl'd, 

1 Bess! for ever fare ye zceeL 

' Then her din grew less and less ay, 
' Haith I gart her change her tune : 

1 Now a better wife than Bessy 
1 Never stept in leather shoon. 

f Try this, Watty. — Whan ye see her 
f Ragin' like a roarin' flood, 

1 Swear that moment that ye'll lea ? her ; 
1 That's the way to keep her gude.' 

Laughing, sangs, and lasses' skirls, 
Echo'd now out thro' the roof, 

Done! quo' Pate, and syne his arls 
Nail'd the Dryster's wauket loof. 

F the thrang o' stories telling, 
Shaking han's, and joking queer, 

Swith! a chap comes on the hallan, 
" Mungo ! is our Watty here r" 

Maggy's weel-kent tongue and hurry, 
Dartet thro' him like a knife ; 

Up the door flew — like a fury, 
In came Watty's scaulin' wife. 



220 

" Nesty, gude-for-naething being ! 

" O ye snuffy drucken sow ! 
" Bringin' wife an' weans to ruin, 

" Drinkin' here wi' sic a crew ! 

u Devil nor your legs war broken ! 

" Sic a life nae flesh endures — 
" Toilin' like a slave, to sloken 

" You, ye dyvor, and your 'hores ! 

u Rise ! ye drucken beast o' Bethel ! 

" Drink's your night and day's desire : 
" Rise, this precious hour ! or faith I'll 

" Fling your whisky i' the fire ! w 

Watty heard her tongue unhallow'd, 
Pay'd his groat wi' little din, 

Left the house, while Maggy fallow'd, 
Flyting a' the road behin'. 

Fowk frae every door cam' lampin', 
Maggy curst them ane and a', 

Clappit wi' her ban's, and stampin', 
Lost her bauchels i' the sna\ 

Hame, at length, she turn'd the gavel, 
Wi' a face as white's a clout, 

Ragin' like a very devil, 

Kicken stools and chairs about. 



221 

" Ye'll sit wi' your limmers round you ! 

" Hang you, Sir ! I'll be your death ! 
" Little hauds my han's confound you ! 

" But I cleave you to the teeth/' 

Watty, wha midst this oration 

Ey'd her whiles, but durstna speak, 

Sat like patient Resignation 
Trem'ling by the ingle cheek. 

Sad his wee drap brose he sippet, 
Maggy's tongue gaed like a bell, 

Quietly to his bed he slippet, 
Sighin' af 'n to himsel'. 

" Nane are free frae some vexation, 
" Ilk ane has his ills to dree ; 

" But thro' a' the hale creation 
" Is a mortal vext like me !" 

A' night Iang he rowt and gauntet, 
Sleep or rest he cou'dna tak ; 

Maggy, aft wi' horror hauntet, 
Mum'lin' startet at his back. 

Soon as e'er the morning peepet, 
Up raise Watty, waefu' chiel, 

Kiss'd his weanies while they sleepet, 
Wakent Meg, and saught fareweel, 



222 

" Fareweel, Meg ! — And, O ! may Heav n 
" Keep you ay within his care : 

" Watty's heart ye've lang been grieving 
" Now he'll never fash you mair. 

" Happy cou'd I been beside you, 
" Happy baith at morn and e'en : 

" A' the ills did e'er betide you, 
" Watty ay turn'd out your frien\ 

" But ye ever like to see me 

" Vext and sighin', late and air. — 

" Fareweel, Meg ! I've sworn to lea' thee, 
" So thou'll never see me mair." 

Meg a' sabbin', sae to lose him, 

Sic a change had never wist, 
Held his han' close to her bosom, 

While her heart was like to burst. 

" O my Watty, will ye lea' me, 
" Frien'less, helpless, to despair ! 

" O ! for this ae time forgi'e me : 
" Never will I vex you mair." 

" Aye, ye've aft said that, and broken 
" A' your vows ten times a-week. 

" No, no, Meg ! See ! — there's a token 
" Glitt'ring on my bonnet cheek. 



223 

" Owre the seas I march this morning, 
" Listet, testet, sworn an' a', 

" Forc'd by your confounded girning ; 
" Fareweel, Meg ! for I'm awa." 

Then poor Maggy's tears and clamour 
Gusht afresh, and louder grew, 

While the w^eans, wi' mournfu' yaumer 
Round their sabbin' mother flew. 

" Thro' the yirth I'll wauner wi? you — 
" Stay, O Watty ! stay at hame ; 

" Here upo' my knees I'll gi'e you 
" Ony vow ye like to name. 

" See your poor young lammies pleadin', 
" Will ye gang an' break our heart ? 

" No a house to put our head in ! 
" No afrien to take our part." 

Ilka word came like a bullet, 
Watty's heart begoud to shake ; 

On a kist he laid his wallet, 

Dightet baith his een and spake. 

" If ance mair I cou'd by writing, 
" Lea' the sodgers and stay still, 

" Wad you swear to drap your flyting r" 
" Yes, O Watty! yes, I will I" 



224 

" Then/' quo' Watty, " mind, be honest : 
" Ay to keep your temper strive ; 

" Gin ye break this dreadfu' promise, 
" Never mair expect to thrive. 

" Marget Howe ! this hour ye solemn 
" Swear by every thing that's gude 

" Ne'er again your spouse to scaul' him, 
" While life warms your heart and blood : 

u That ye'll ne'er in Mungo's seek me, — 
u Ne'er put drucken to my name — ■ 

u Never out at e'ening steek me— 
u Never gloom when I come hame : 

" That ye'll ne'er, like Bessy Miller, 
" Kick my shins, or rug my hair — 

" Lastly, Tm to keep the siller, 
" This upo' your saul ye swear i 

« Oh !"— quo' Meg, " Aweel," quo' Watty, 
" Fareweel ! — faith I'll try the seas." 

" O stan' still," quo' Meg, and grat ay ; 
" Ony, ony way ye please." 

Maggy syne, because he prest her, 

Swore to a' thing owre again : 
Watty lap, and danc'd and kiss'd her ; 

Wow ! but he was won'rous fain. 



225 

Down he threw his staff victorious ; 

Aff gaed bonnet, claes, and shoon ; 
Syne aneath the blankets, glorious ! 

Held anither Hinny-Moon. 



VOL. II. 



THE JOLLY BEGGARS; 



OR, 



LOVE AND LIBERTY: 



A CANTATA. 



BY ROBERT BURNS, 



S^ 



<m 



THE JOLLY BEGGARS, 



THIS spirited and humorous effusion fell into the 
hands of the Editor while engaged in collecting the 
'Reliques of Bums. Notwithstanding its various and 
striking merits, he was compelled to withhold it from 
publication by the same motives which induced Dr. 
Currie to suppress it ; but in so doing he has, to his 
surprise, incurred censure instead of approbation. 
Mr. Walter Scott, in an elaborate essay on the Ge- 
nius of Burns, has thought proper to introduce the 
following remarks : — 

" Yet applauding, as we do most highly applaud* 
the leading principles of Dr. Currie's selection, we are 
aware that they sometimes led him into fastidious and 
over-delicate rejection of the bard's most spirited and 
happy effusions. A thin octavo, published at Glasgow 
in 1801, under the title of ' Poems ascribed to Robert 
Burns, the Ayrshire bard/ furnishes valuable proofs of 
this assertion. It contains, among a good deal of rub- 
bish, some of his most brilliant poetry. A cantata in 
particular^ called The Jolly Beggars* for humorous de- 



230 



scription and nice discrimination of character, is infe- 
rior to no poem of the same length in the whole range 
of English poetry. The scene, indeed, is laid in the 
very lowest department of low life, the actors being a 
set of strolling vagrants, met to carouse, and barter 
their rags and plunder for liquor in a hedge ale-house. 
Yet even in describing the movements of such a group, 
the native taste of the poet has never suffered his pen 
to slide into any thing coarse or disgusting. The ex- 
travagant glee and outrageous frolic of the beggars are 
ridiculously contrasted with their maimed limbs, rags, 
and crutches — the sordid and squalid circumstances of 
their appearance are judiciously thrown into the shade. 
Nor is the art of the poet less conspicuous in the indi- 
vidual figures, than in the general mass. The festive 
vagrants are distinguished from each other by personal 
appearance and character, as much as any fortuitous 
assembly in the higher orders of life. The group, it 
must be observed, is of Scottish character, and doubt- 
less our northern brethren* are more familiar with its 
varieties than we are: yet the distinctions are too 
well marked to escape even the Souther on. The most 



* c Our northern brethren.' In order to preserve consistency, Mr. 
Scott is obliged to disclaim his country, and to resort to a ruse 
de guerre, for the purpose of misleading his readers. To what 
humiliating shifts must a man stoop who lets out his pen for hire* 
He appears here like a Scotchman at a masquerade, endeavour- 
ing to support an English character; " His speech bewrayeth. 
him." 



£31 

prominent persons are a maimed soldier and his female 
companion, a hackneyed follower of the camp, a stroll- 
er, late the consort of an Highland ketterer or sturdy- 
beggar, — ( but weary fa' the waefu* woodie '/'—Being 
how at liberty, she becomes an object of rivalry be- 
tween a ' pigmy scraper with his fiddle* and a strolling 
tinker. The latter, a desperate bandit, like most of his 
profession, terrifies the musician out of the field, and is 
preferred by the damsel of course. A wandering bal- 
lad-singer, with a brace of doxies, is last introduced 
upon the stage. Each of these mendicants sings a 
song in character, and such a collection of humorous 
lyrics, connected by vivid poetical description, is not, 
perhaps, to be paralleled in the English language. 
— As the collection and the poem are very little 
known in England, we transcribe the concluding 
ditty, chaunted by the ballad- singer at the request of 
the company, whose c mirth and fun have now grown 
fast and furious/ and set them above all sublunary ter- 
rors of jails, stocks, and whipping-posts. It is certainly 
far superior to any thing in the Beggars* Opera, where 
alone we could expect to find its parallel. 

" We are at a loss to conceive any good reason why 
Dr. Currie did not introduce this singular and humor- 
ous cantata into his collection. It is true, that in one 
or two passages the muse has trespassed slightly upon 
decorum, where, in the language of Scottish song, 

u High kilted was she, 

" As she gaed owre the lea/' 



232 

Something, however, is to be allowed to the nature of 
the subject, and something to the education of the 
poet : and if from veneration to the names of Swift 
and Dryden, we tolerate the grossness of the one, and 
the indelicacy of the other, the respect due to that of 
Burns, may surely claim indulgence for a few light 
strokes of broad humour. The same collection con- 
tains ' Holy Willie's Prayer/ a piece of satire more 
exquisitely severe than any which Burns afterwards 
wrote, but unfortunately cast in a form too daringly 
profane to be received into Dr. Curriers Collection. 

" Knowing that these, and hoping that other com- 
positions of similar spirit and tenor might yet be reco- 
vered, we were induced to think that some of them, at 
least, had found a place in the collection given to 
the public by Mr. Cromek. But he has neither risqued 
the censure, nor laid claim to the applause, which 
might have belonged to such an undertaking/* 



A critique so highly commendatory, from the pen 
of one whose judgment in poetical matters is of great 
authority, must have excited the curiosity of the pub- 
lic with respect to the poem, and may avail as a licence 
for its insertion here. The Editor, however, must 
avow, that he still feels the full force of his former 
scruples, and that he waves them only in deference 



233 

to the general respect which is paid to the opinion of 
so eminent a critic. 

At the same time, it is a matter of satisfaction to 
him to find a resting place for this genuine offspring 
of the Muse of Burns, which has long been wan- 
dering uncertain of a home, and has often appeared 
with other pieces of inferior merit, erroneously 
ascribed to him. 



THE JOLLY BEGGARS.* 

REC1TATIVO. 

When lyart leaves bestrow the yird, 
Or wavering like the Bauckie-bird, 

Bedim cauld Boreas' blast y 
When hailstanes drive wi' bitter skyte, 
And infant frosts begin to bite, 

In hoary cranreuch drest ; 
Ae night at e'en a merry core 

O' randie, gangrel bodies, 
In Posie-Nansie's held the splore, 

To drink their orra duddies : 

* The present copy is printed from a MS. by Burns, in 4to ? 
belonging to Mr. T. Stewart, of Greenock. This gentleman 
first introduced it to the public. — Ed. 



234 

Wi' quaffing, and laughirig, 
They ranted an' they sang ; 

Wi' jumping an' thumping, 
The vera girdle rang. 

First, neist the fire, in auld, red rags, 
Ane sat ; wee! brac'd wi' mealy bags, 

And knapsack a' in order ; 
His doxy lay within his arm, 
Wi' usquebae an' blankets warm, 
She blinket on her sodger : 
An' ay he gies the tozie drab 
The tither skelpan kiss, 
While she held up her greedy gab 
Just like an aumous dish : 

Ilk smack still, did crack still, 

Just like a cadger's whip ; 
Then staggering, an' swaggering, 
He roar'd this ditty up — 



AIR. 

Tune— Soldier's Joy. 

I. 

I am a son of Mars, who have been in many wars, 
And shew my cuts and scars wherever I come ; 



235 

This here was for a wench, and that other in a trench, 
When welcoming the French at the sound of the 
drum. 

Lai de daudle, fyc, 

IL 

My prenticeship I past where my leader breathed 

his last, 
When the bloody die was cast on the heights of 

Abram ; 
I served out my trade when the gallant game was 

playd, 
And the Moro low was laid at the sound of the 

drum. 

III. 

I lastly was with Curtis, among the floating batt'ries, 
And there I left for witness, an arm and a limb ; 
Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to head me, 
I'd clatter on my stumps at the sound of a drum. 

IV. 

And now tho' I must beg, with a wooden arm and 

leg, 
And many a tatter'd rag hanging over my bum, 



236 

Vm as happy with my wallet, my bottle and my 

callet, # 
As when I us'd in scarlet to follow a drum. 

V. 

What tho', with hoary locks, I must stand the winter 

shocks, 
Beneath the woods and rocks oftentimes for a home, 
When the tother bag I sell, and the tother bottle tell, 
I could meet a troop of hell at the sound of a drum, 

RECITATIVO. 

He ended ; and the kebars sheuk 

Aboon the chorus roar ; 
While frighted rattons backward leuk, 

An' seek the benmost bore : 
A Merry Andrew i ? the neuk, 

He skirl'd out, encore ! 
But up arose the martial chuck, 

An' laid the loud uproar. 

AIR. 

Tune — Sodger Laddie. 
I. 
I once was a maid, tho' I cannot tell when, 
And still my delight is in proper young men; 

* Callet, a Soldier's Drab, or Trull. 



237 

Some one of a troop of dragoons was my daddie, 
No wonder I'm fond of a sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lai de dal, &c. 

II. 

The first of my loves was a swaggering blade, 
To rattle the thundering drum was his trade ; 
His leg was so tight and his cheek was so ruddy, 
Transported was I with my sodger laddie. 

III. 

But the godly old chaplain left him in the lurch, 
The sword I forsook for the sake of the church ; 
He ventured the soul, and I risked the body, 
? Twas then I prov'd false to my sodger laddie. 

IV. 

Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot. 
The regiment at large for a husband I got ; 
From the gilded sponioon to the fife I was ready, 
I asked no more but a sodger laddie. 

V. 

But the peace it reduc'd me to beg in despair, 
Till I met my old boy at a Cunningham fair ; 
His rags regimental they flutter'd so gaudy, 
My heart it rejoic'd at a $odger laddie. 



238 



VI. 



And now I have lived — I know not how long, 

And still I can join in a cup and a song : 

But whilst with both hands I can hold the glass 

steady, 
Here's to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lai de dal, &c. 



RECITATIVO. 



Poor Merry Andrew, in the neuk 

Sat guzzling wi' a tinkler hizzie ; 
They mind't na wha the chorus teuk, 

Between themsels they were sae busy. 
At length wi' drink and courting dizzy, 

He stoiter'd up an' made a face ; 
Then turn'd an' laid a smack on Grizzy, 

Syne tun'd his pipes wi' grave grimace, 

AIR. 

Tune — Auld Sir Simon. 

Sir Wisdom's a fool when he's fou, 
Sir Knave is a fool in a session ; 

He's there but a prentice, I trow, 
But I am a fool by profession. 



239 

My Grannie she bought me a beuk, 
An' I held awa to the school ; 

I fear I my talent misteuk, 

But what will ye hae of a fool. 

For drink I would venture my neck ; 

A hizzie's the half of my craft ; 
But what could ye other expect 

Of ane that's avowedly daft. 

I ance was ty'd up like a stirk, 
For civilly swearing and quaffing ; 

I ance was abus'd i' the Kirk, 
For towzing a lass i' my daffin. 

Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport, 
Let naebody name wi' a jeer ; 

There's ev'n, I'm tauld, i' the court, 
A Tumbler ca'd the Premier. 

Observ'd ye yon reverend lad 
Mak faces to tickle the mob ; 

He rails at our mountebank squad, 
It's rivakhip just i' the job. 

And now my conclusion I'll tell, 
For faith I'm confoundedly dry, 

The chiel that's a fool for himsel, 
Guid L — d, he's far dafter than L 



240 



RECITATIVO. 



Then neist outspak a raucle carlin, 
Wha kent fu weel to cleek the sterlin' ; 
For mony a pursie she had hooked, 
An' had in mony a well been douked : 
Her Love had been a Highland laddie, 
But weary fa* the waefu' woodie ! 
Wi' sighs and sobs she thus began 
To wail her braw John Highlandman. 



AIR. 

Tune — O an ye were dead Gudeman. 
I. 

A highland lad my love was born, 
The Lalland laws he held in scorn ; 
But he still was faithfu' to his clan, 
My gallant, braw John Highlandman ! 

CHORUS. 

Sing hey my braw John Highlandman ! 
Sing ho my braw John Highlandman ! 
There's not a lad in a 9 the lari 
Was match for my John Highlandman! 



£41 



II. 



With his philibeg an' tartan plaid, 
An' guid claymore down by his side, 
The ladies' hearts he did trepan, 
My gallant, braw John Highlandman. 

Sing, hey, fyc. 

III. - 

We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey, 
An' liv'd like lords an' ladies gay ; 
For a lalland face he feared none, 
My gallant, braw John Highlandman. 

Sing, hey, fyc. 

IV. 
They banish'd him beyond the sea, 
But ere the bud was on the tree, 
Adown my cheeks the pearls ran, 
Embracing my John Highlandman. 

Sing, hey, fyc. 

V. 

But och ! they catch'd him at the last, 
And bound him in a dungeon fast ; 
My curse upon them every one, 
They've hang'd my braw John Highlandman. 

Sing, hey, fyc. 

VOL. II. B 



242 



VI. 



And now a widow I must mourn 
Departed joys that ne'er return ; 
No comfort but a hearty can, 
When I think on John Highlandman. 

Sing, hey, fyc. 



RECITAT1V0. 

A pigmy scraper wi' his fiddle, 

Wha us'd to trystes and fairs to driddle, 

Her strappen limb an' gausy middle, 

(He reach'd nae higher,) 
Had hol'd his heartie like a riddle, 

An' blawn't on fire. 

W ' hand on hainch, an' upward e'e, 
He croon'd his gamut, one, two, three, 
Then in an arioso key, 

The wee Apollo 
Set off wi' allegretto glee 

His giga solo. 



243 

AIR. 

Tune— Whistle owre the lave o't. 

Let me ryke up to dight that tear, 
An' go wi' me an' be my dear ; 
An' then your every care and fear 
May whistle owre the lave o't. 

CHORUS. 

I am a fiddler to my trade, 
Art a! the tunes that eer I play 9 d, 
The sweetest still to wife or maid, 
Was, whistle owre the law o't. 

II. 

At kirns an' weddins we'se be there, 
An' O sae nicely's we will fare ! 
We'll bowse about till Dadie Care 
Sing whistle owre the lave o't. 

I" am, &c. 
III. 

Sae merrily 's the banes we'll pyke, 
An' sun oursells about the dyke ; 

An' at our leisure when ye like 
We'll — whistle owre the lave o't. 

lam, &Cs 



244 



IV. 



But bless me wi' your heav'n o' charms, 
And while I kittle hair on thairms, 

Hunger, cauld, an' a' sic harms 
May whistle owre the lave o't. 

lam, &c. 



RECITATIVO. 

Her charms had struck a sturdy Caird, 

As weel as poor Gutscraper ; 
He taks the fiddler by the beard, 

An' draws a roosty rapier — 
He swoor by a' was swearing w r orth, 

To speet him like a pliver, 
Unless he would from that time forth 

Relinquish her for ever : 

Wi' ghastly e'e, poor tweedledee, 

Upon his hunkers bended, 
An' pray'd for grace wi' ruefu' grace, 

An' so the quarrel ended ; 
But tho' his little heart did grieve, 

When round the tinker prest her, 
He feign'd to snirtle in his sleeve 

When thus the Caird address'd her. 



U5 

AIR. 

Tune — Clout the Caudron. 

L 

My bonie lass I work in brass, 

A tinkler is my station ; 
I've traveled round all Christian ground 

In this my occupation ; 
I've ta'en the gold, I've been enroll'd 

In many a noble squadron ; 
But vain they search'd, when off I march'd 

To go an' clout the caudron. 

I've taen the gold, &c. 

II. 

Despise that shrimp, that wither'd imp, 
With a' his noise an' caprin ;* 

An' take a share with those that bear 
The budget an' the apron ! 

An' by that stowp ! my faith an' houpe, 
An' by that dear Kilbaigie ! 



Var.— 

u That monkey face, despise the race, 
WV a' their noise and cap'ring." 



246 

If e'er ye want, or meet with scant, 
May I ne'er weet my craigie. 

An' by that stowp, &c. 

RECITAT1VO. 

The Caird prevail'd — th' unblushing fair 

In his embraces sunk ; 
Partly wi' love o'ercome sae sair, 

An' partly she was drunk : 
Sir Violino, with an air, 

That show'd a man o' spunk, 
Wish'd unison between the pair, 

An' made the bottle clunk 

To their health that night. 

But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft, 
That play'd a dame a shavie — 

A Sailor 

#■ # * 

* *■ *• 

Her lord a wight o' Homer's* craft, 

Tho' limpan wi' the spavie, 
He hirpl'd up an' lap like daft, 

An' shor'd them Dainty Davie 

O'boot that night. 

* Homer is allowed to be the oldest ballad-singer on record. 



247 

He was a care-defying blade, 

As ever Bacchus listed ! 
Tho' fortune sair upon him laid, 

His heart she ever miss'd it : 
He had no wish but — to be glad, 

Nor want but — when he thristed ; 
He hated nought but — to be sad, 

An' thus the Muse suggested 

His sang that night. 



AIR. 

Tune— For a' that, an* a' that. 



I am a bard of no regard 
Wi' gentle-folks, an' a' that ; 

But Homer-like, the glowran byke, 
Frae town to town I draw that. 

CHORUS. 

For a' that art a' that, 

An' twice as muckle's a! that, 

I've lost but ane, I've tzm behin% 
I've wife eneugh/or a' that. 



248 

II. 
I never drank the Muses' stank, 

Castalia's burn an' a* that ; 
But there it streams, an* richly reams, 
My Helicon I ca' that. 

For a 9 that, &c. 

III. 
Great love I bear to all the Fair, 
Their humble slave, an' a' that ; 
But lordly Will, I hold it still 
A mortal sin to thraw that. 

For a that, &c. 

IV. 

In raptures sweet, this hour we meet, 

Wi' mutual love an' a' that ; 
But for how lang thejlie may stang, 

Let inclination law that. 

For a 9 that, &c. 

V. 

Their tricks an' craft hae put me daft, 
They've ta'en me in, an' a' that ; 

But clear your decks, an' here's the Sex! 
I like the jads for a' that. 



249 

For a' that an a! that, 

An twice as muckles a' that, 

My dearest b/uid, to do them guid, 
They re welcome tilftfor a that. 

REC1TAT1VO. 

So sung the Bard — and Nansie's waws 

Shook with a thunder of applause 
Re-echo'd from each mouth ! 

They toom'd their pocks, they pawn'd their duds, 
They scarcely left to coor their fuds, 

To quench their lowan drouth. 

Then owre again, the jovial thrang, 

The poet did request, 
To lowse his pack an' wale a sang, 
A ballad o' the best : 

He, rising, rejoicing, 

Between his twa Deborahs, 
Looks round him, an' found them # 
Impatient for the chorus. 



* Var.— 

Look'd round them, and found them. 



250 



AIR. 



Tune — Jolly mortals fill your glasses. 
I. 

See ! the smoking bowl before us, 
Mark our jovial, ragged ring ! 

Round and round take up the chorus, 
And in raptures let us sing — 

CHORUS. 

A fig for those by law protected ! 

Liberty's a glorious feast ! 
Courts for cowards were erected, 

Churches built to please the priest. 

II. 

What is title, what is treasure, 

What is reputation's care ? 
If we lead a life of pleasure, 

? Tis no matter how or where. 

A fig, Sfc. 

III. 

With the ready trick and fable, 
Round we wander all the day ; 



251 

And at night, in barn or stable, 
Hug our doxies on the hay. 

J Jig, %c. 

IV. 

Does the train-attended carriage 
Thro' the country lighter rove ? 

Does the sober bed of marriage 
Witness brighter scenes of love ? 

A Jig, Sf€, 

V. 

Life is all a variorum, 

We regard not how it goes ; 
Let them cant about decorum 

Who have character to lose. 

J Jig, fa. 

VI. 

Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets! 

Here's to all the wandering train ! 
Here's our ragged brats and collets I 

One and all cry out, Amen I 

A Jig for those by law 'protected, 
Liberty's a glorious feast ! 

Courts for cowards were erected, 
Churches built to please the priest I 



€52 



In Mr. Scott's remarks on the 6 Jolly Beggars/ 
the reader will observe that he praises a thin volume 
published at Glasgow, as containing some of Burns's 
' most brilliant poetry.' — Whatever regard the 
Editor may have for the judgment of Mr. Walter 
Scott, he has a still greater respect for the good 
fame of Robert Burns ; and he cannot suffer this 
erroneous statement to pass without correction. 
With the exception of the Cantata, and Holy 
Willie's Prayer, not one of the pieces in the 
volume above-mentioned can be considered as c bril- 
liant poetry.' They consist either of rubbish, con- 
fessedly not his, or of sallies, of which, in Mr. Scott's 
own opinion, ? Justice to the living and to the dead, 
alike demanded the suppression.' It is lamentable 
to observe, that those effusions which the Bard him- 
self would have consigned to oblivion, have been 
drawn into public notice by his ozm countrymen 
only; and (as evil communications seldom fail to 
corrupt good manners) in consequence of the recom- 
mendation here given to this contemptible volume, 
to this 'skimble-skamble stuff/ the Editor saw it, 



253 

with regret, advertised to be printed, and republished 
by the Ballantynes of Edinburgh. 

That the reader may properly appreciate Mr. 
Scott's recommendation of what he is pleased to 
term ' brilliant poetry/ the following titles and ex- 
tracts from this volume are inserted. :— 

The Jo Ui/ Beggars. 

The Kirk's Alarm. — A silly satire on some worthy mi- 
nisters of the gospel in Ayrshire. 

Epistle from a Tailor to Robert Burns. — beginning, 

( What waefu' news is this I hear, 
Frae greeting I can scarce forbear, 
Folk tell me ye're gaun aff this year, 
Out owre the sea, 
And lasses wham ye lo'e sae dear 

Will greet for thee.* 

Is this the Poetry of Robert Burns ? 

Then follows what is called Robert Burns's Answer to 
the aforesaid Tailor, beginning in this blackguard 
language : — 

* What ails ye now, ye lousy b-tch, 
To thresh my back at sic a pitch/ 



254 

Song, beginning, 'TheDeil cam fiddling thro? the Town' 
Inserted in the Reliques of Burns, 

Holy Willies Prayer. — Suppressed by Dr. Currie, and 
by the Editor of the Reliques, for its open and 
daring profanity, and the frequent and familiar 
introduction of the sacred name of the Deity. 

The Inventory. — Dr. Currie published this in his edi- 
tion, but he had the good sense and delicacy to 
suppress the objectionable passages : they are here 
restored; and that the grossness might be still 
more palpable, they are conspicuously printed, 
for the benefit of the rising generation, in italics. 

An Address to a bastard Child. — Rejected by Dr. Currie 
for its indelicacy. 

Elegy on the Year 178S. — Printed in the Reliques. 

Verses addressed to John Rankin, beginning, e Ae day as 
death that grusome carl,' &c. Inserted in the 
Reliques. 

Verses addressed to the above Johnie Rankin, on his writ- 
ing to the Poet c that a girl in the part of the coun- 
try in which he lived was with child by him ! y 

With several other pieces of this cast, equally ' bril- 
liant' and edifying ; and some tributary verses by 
various hands. 



255 

Such are the contents of a volume which has been 
praised in a publication assuming an authority to 
control the licentiousness of the press, and to direct 
the taste of the public ! But blasphemy and ribaldry 
will not be published by the Editor of these volumes, 
though written in an unhallowed moment by Robert 
Burns; and recommended to public notice, after 
the most mature deliberation, by Mr. Walter 
Scott. 



257 



NOTES TO THE JOLLY BEGGARS. 



SUCH a motley group of vagrants as Burns has so 
happily described, may yet be found in many districts 
of Scotland. There are houses of rendezvous where 
the maimed supplicating soldier, the travelling ballad- 
singing fiddler, the sturdy wench, with hands ever 
ready to steal the pittance when it is not bestowed \ 
the rough black-haired tinker, with his soldering 
irons and pike-staff, and ail the children of pre- 
tended misfortune, assemble on a Saturday night to 
pawn their stolen clothes, to sell their begged meal, 
and on their produce to hold merriment and re- 
velry. 

The gypsies, or tinkers, form themselves into gangs 
or parties, roaming from parish to parish, hanging 
loose on the skirts of society. Their laws and regu- 
lations are of their own framing. They cohabit with 
one another, neither asking nor giving in marriage. 
Their visible calling is the making of horn-spoons, 
mending pans and kettles, and clasping and cement- 
ing broken china ware. But the robbery of hen- 

VOL, II. * s 



258 

roosts and hedges, lifting lambs from their folds, and 
other acts of contribution, are the natural and ex- 
pected consequences of their troublesome neighbour- 
hood. So much are they noted for petty acts of de- 
predation, that the exclamation of an old woman in 
Galloway is there treasured up as a phrase of caution. 
On the morning after the arrival of the tinker squad, 
she was calling her poultry for the purpose of feeding 
them ; — • 

" Chuckie ! chuckie ! chuckie ! — Ay, haith ! sae 1 
may ! Our new-come neebors like featherM flesh owre 
weel!" 

These gypsies are an undaunted and vigorous set of 
vagrants, lodging, as it suits them, a few days or 
weeks in the first empty barn or kiln they can find. 
Here they set up their little forges and shops without 
the ceremony of asking permission of their owners. 
They were formerly very formidable among the lone- 
some cottages, forcibly stealing and pillaging every- 
thing that fell in their way ; but when the Legislature 
disarmed the peasantry, they were compelled to lay 
aside their short swords and daggers. They are now 
dwindled into little parties, seldom exceeding six or 
Seven in number, men, women, and children, with a 
couple of asses to carry their spoon-making appara- 
tus and bartering wares. 



9,59 

Note I. 

When hailstones drive ivi' bitter sh/te. 

The slanting stroke of hail when carried by the 
wind. 

Note II. 

Ae night at e 3 en a merry core 

y randie, gangrel bodies, 
In Posie- Nansie' s held the splore, 

To drink their orra duddies. 

Randie, gangrel bodies, are blackguard vagrants. 
The splore is a frolic, a merry meeting. In the slang 
language of the inhabitants of St. Giles's, in London, 
it is called a spree, or a go. Orra duddies are su- 
perfluous rags. Posie Nansie is an expressive Scot- 
tish nickname for one whose fingers are too familiar 
with the purses of others. A pose signifies a purse 
of money, a quantity of coin, &c. Posie Nansie 's 
was also a designation for a well-known barn in the 
outskirts of Mauchline, belonging to a whiskey- 
house, in which the Beggars held their orgies, and 
where the present group actually met. 

s £ 



*260 



Note III. 

While she held up her greedy gab 
Just like an aumos dish. 

The box, or bag, in which a beggar receives the 
handfuls of meat, given as an aumos, or charitable 
donation. It is also a Scottish phrase applied to a 
sturdy beggar ; — 

' Work or want ye're nae amoasS 

Note IV. 

Ilk smack still, did crack still. 
Like ony cadger's whip. 

A cadger is a man who travels the country with a 
horse or an ass, carrying two panniers loaded with 
various merchandize for the country people. 

Note V. 

He ended; and the kebars sheuk 

Aboon the chorus roar ; 
While frighted rations backward leuk, 

An seek the benmost bore. 

Kebars are the rafters of the bam. Sometimes 
in old Scotch poetry they are called bougers. 



261 

\W bougers o 3 barns they beft blue caps, 
While they o' bairns made brigs/ 

Chrisfs Kirk on the Green. 

The benmost bore is the deepest hole or recess of 
the place. 

No. VI. 

Then neist outspak a raucle carlin, 

Wha kenn'dfu* iveel to cleek the sterlitf. 

A raucle carlin ; a sturdy, raw-boned, weather- 
beaten, outspoken Dame, finely explained in familiar 
Scotch, as, ( Ane wha wad gie a bluidy snout sooner 
than a mensfu' word. 

The word cleek alludes to the crooking of the fin- 
gers when employed in the act of picking a pocket ; 
'For mony a-pursie she had hooked/ 

No. VII. 

Her love had been a Highland laddie. 
But weary fa the waefic ivoodie ! 

The woodie, a sort of rope formed of twisted wil- 
low-wands used occasionally, in ancient times, in 
the summary executions of prisoners of war, or 
thieves caught in woods. 



262 



Note VIII. 

A pigmy scraper on a fiddle, 

Wha us'd to trystes and fairs to driddle. 

To driddle. A contemptuous phrase applied to 
the walking or other motions of people who are de- 
formed, or diminutive in stature. 

Note IX. 

At kirns an y weddings we'se be there, 
An' O ! sae nicely s we will fare ! 
We'll bouze about, fyc. 

A Scotch wedding lasted three or four days in an- 
cient times : Feasting, dancing, and other merri- 
ment, afforded rare doings for the strolling min- 
strels. 

Note X. 

And while I kittle hair on thairms. 
i. e. while I rub a horse-hair bow upon cat-gut. 

Note XI. 

Wi y ghastly ee, poor Tweedle-dee 
Upon his hunkers bended. 



Q63 

To sit on one's hunkers, to sit with the hips hang- 
ing downwards, and the weight of the body depend- 
ing on the knees. 



"b 



No. XII. 

An' by that stowpe, my faith an 9 hope, 

An' by that dear Keilbagie ! 
If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant, 

May I ne'er weet my craigie ! 

This is a deeply-solemn oath for a tinker ; but it 
must be remembered that his resources never failed 
while any of his neighbours' property remained unse- 
cured. The faith to be put in their curses is pro- 
verbial. 

That dear Keilbagie, Keilbagie is a well-known 
kind of whiskey, in great request among the jovial 
inhabitants of Posie Nansie's barn. 

Note XIII. 

Her lord, a wight of Homer's craft, 

Tho' limpin' wi' the spavie, 
He hirpled up, and lap like daft, 

An' shor'd them * Dainty Davie 9 

0' boot that night. 



264 

The strolling bard seems rejoiced at getting rid of 
one of his doxies ; and merrily shores, or makes a 
blj the threatening promise of the tune called ' Dainty 
Davie/ into the bargain. 

Note XIV. 

I am a bard, of no regard 

Wi* gentle-folks, an* a* that; 
But Homer-like, the glowran-hyke, 

Frae town to town I draw that. 

The glowran-byke. Byke is a term applied to a 
swarm of bees. Here it means a multitude of peo- 
ple, whom the bard draws from their houses, like so 
many bees, to listen to his lilting. 

Note XV. 

They toom y d their pocks, they pawned their duds. 

i.e. they emptied their wallets, and pawn'd their 
rags. 



FINIS. 



265 



INDEX TO VOL. I. 



PAGE 

Beneath a green shade I fand a fair maid . . . 133 

Bess the Gawkie 2 

Bide ye, bide ye yet 161 

Bide ye yet * 163 

Billet, by Jean Gradden 172 

Blink owre the burn, sweet Betty 66 

Bothwel Banks (note) 76 

Braw, braw lads of Galla-water 127 

Bruce's Address to his Army (Burns, Note) . . 1 65 

Cauld kail in Aberdeen 142 

Cauld kail in Aberdeen 141 

Cromlet's lilt 82 

Down the burn Davie 65 

Duncan Gray (Burns) 137 

Fairest of the fair (Note) ........ 37 

Go to the ewe«bughts Marion 86 

Guid yill comes, and guid yill goes 117 

Hee, balow, my sweet wee Donald (Note) ... 63 
I dream' d Hay where flowers were springingf.BwrttsJ 130 

I hae been at Crookie-den (Note) 34 

I'm owre young to marry yet (Burns) . . . . 107 

Johnie's grey breeks 22 

Lewie Gordon 89 

Look up to Pentland's towering tap 17 

Macpherson's Farewell (Burns) 108 

Maggie Lauder 94 

Mary's dream 51 

May eve, or Kate of Aberdeen 27 

MiU, mill O 133 



266 

PAGE 

My ain kind dearie O 60 

My dearie if thou die 84 

My Jo Janet . . 110 

O corn rigs an* rye rigs 91 

Oh ono chrio 90 

Raving winds around her blowing (Burns) . . 166 

Roslin castle 6 

Sae merry as we twa hae been 74 

Saw ye Johnnie cummin, quo' she , , . . . 9 

Saw ye nae my Peggy 12 

Sheriff Muir 145 

Strathallan's lament (Burns) 122 

Strephon and Lydia 106 

Tarry woo 57 

The banks of the Devon (Burns) 132 

The battle of Sheriff-muir (Burns) .... 158 

The birks of Aberfeldy (Burns) 112 

The blaithrie o't 38 

The blaithrie o't 40 

The boatie rows 45 

The bonie, brucket lassie 72 

The bridal o't 167 

The bush aboon Traquair 77 

The collier's bonnie lassie . 60 

The drucken wife o' Galloway 185 

The happy marriage (Note) 47 

The highland lassie O (Burns) . . . . K . 115 

The jolly beggar 53 

The lass of Patie's mill 30 

The lord o' Gordon had three dochters ... 86 

The posie (Burns) 49 

The ranting dog the daddie o't (Burns) ... 184 

There's nae luck about the house 68 

The rock an' the wee pickle tow . . . . . . 174 

The tears of Scotland 124 

The turnimspike 32 

The wauking of the faulds . 92 



267 

PAGE 

Todlenhame 140 

Tranent muir 98 

Tune your fiddles 181 

Tweed side 42 

Up in the morning early (Burns) 123 

Waly, waly .135 

What ails the lasses at me 170 

What will I do gin my hoggie die (Burns) . . 129 

When Maggie an' I was acquaint ... . . 44 

Were na my heart light I wad die 119 

Yestreen I had a pint o' wine (Burns) . . . 61 



APPENDIX TO VOL. I. 

Account of Jean Adam 189 

of James Ty tier . . 1 99 

of the Rev. John Skinner 209 

n of the late Joseph Ritson 224. 



INDEX TO VOL. II. 



A mother's lament for the death of her son 

(Burns) 1SS 

A southland Jenny 157 

A waukrife minnie 116 

Andro wi* his cutty gun : . 149 

As I cam down by yon castle wa\ 169 

Auld lang syne ,127 



268 

PAGE 

Auld Robin Gray 26 

Beware o' bonnie Ann (Burns) 45 

Ely the was she (Burns J 12 

Bob o' Dumblane 193 

Ca' the ewes to the knowes 131 

Craigie-burn wood 146 

Collier laddie 9 

Duncan 75 

Frae the friends and land I love 147 

Hughie Graham . . . . • 1 52 

I do confess thou art sae fair (Burns) . . . . 166 

I do confess thou'rt smooth and fair (Note) . . 167 

I had a horse, and I had nae mair ..... 22 

I love my Jean (Burns) 105 

It is na, Jean, thy bonie face (Burns) .... 181 

John o' Badenyon 122 

Johnie Cope 101 

Johnie Coupe (Note) 103 

Johny Faa, or the gipsy laddie 15 

Kenneth . 82 

Killycrankie 137 

Ladie Marie Ann 134 

The laird of Cockpen 130 

Leader-haughs and Yarrow 49 

Logan braes 173 

Logan water (Note) ..... . . . . . . 1 74 

Louis what reck I by thee (Burns) . . . . . 133 

Luckie Nansie 190 

Muirland Willie 60 

Musing on the roaring ocean (Burns) . . . . . 11 

My bonnie Marie (Burns) ....... 98 

My Harry was a gallant gay (Burns) .... 44 

My heart's in the highlands (Bums) .... 112 

My tocher's the jewel (Burns) 159 

O can ye labour lea, young man ...... 40 

O for ane and twenty Tarn (Burns) . . . . 171 

O were I on Parnassus' hill (Burns) .... 107 



969 

PAGE 

O'er the moor amang the heather . . . . . 174 

Rattlin, roarin Willie 4 

Tak your auld cloak about ye 1 

Tibbie Dunbar 73 

The bonnie banks of Ayr (Burns) 114 

Tibbie I hae seen the day (Burns) 7 

The bonny earle of Murray 156 

The bonnie lass made the bed to me (Burns) . 19 

The bonie wee thing (Burns) 186 

The blythesome bridal ......... 35 

The carl of Kellyb urn -braes (Burns) . '. . . 163 

The ewie wi' the crookit horn 141 

The day returns, my bosom burns (Burns) . . 92 

The flowers of the forest 67 

The flowers of the forest (part II.) 71 

The Gaberlunzie-man 94 

The gardener wi' his paidle 90 

The Highland character 46 

The lazy mist (Burns) 100 

The lovely lass of Inverness (Burns) . . . . 113 

The smiling plains 64 

The tears I shed must ever fall 1S4 

Then guid wife count the lawin ...... 161 

There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame 

(Burns) 161 

There's a youth in the city (Bums) . . . . 108 

This is no mine ain house 89 

To daunton me 18 

To the rose-bud 177 

Tullochgorum 118 

Up and warn a' Willie 29 

Willie brew'd a peck o' maut (Burns) . . . 135 

Wha is that at my bower door -(Burns) . . . 182 

When I upon thy bosom lean 42 

Where braving angry winter's storms (Burns) . 5 

Where wad bonie Annie lie 168 

Woo'd and married an 5 a' , . 53 



270 

PACE 

Woo'd and married an' a' 56 

Yon wild mossy mountains (Burns) .... 179 



Letter from Burns to William Tytler, Esq. of 

Woodhouselee 194 

FRAGMENTS. 

The braes of Yarrow 196 

Rob Roy 199 

Bonnie Dundee 202 

Young Hynhorn 204 

Stanza of an old Song 207 



Watty and Meg 212 

The Jolly Beggars ; or, Love and Liberty : a 

Cantata, by Burns 227 

Remarks on the Poem of c The Jolly Beggars/ 

by Walter Scott, Esq 229 

Notes on ' The Jolly Beggars' 257 



THE 

procession 

OF 

CHAUCER'S PILGRIMS 

TO CANTERBURY. 



A PRINT, 

FROM THE 

WELL-KNOWN CABINET PICTURE, PAINTED 
FROM THIS SUBJECT, 

BY THOMAS STOTHARD, ESQ, R.A. 

IS NOW ENGRAVING, 

IN THE LINE MANNER, 

BY LOUIS SCHIAVONETTI, ESQ. V. A. 



The Picture is 3 feet 1 inch long, and 10^ inches high. 
The Print will be executed exactly of the same size. 
The price of the Prints will be Three Guineas ; Proof 
Impressions, Five Guineas. Gentlemen who wish to 
possess this Engraving, are requested to forward their 
address to Mr. Cromek, No. 64, Newman -street, Lon- 
don, where the etching may be seen ; and as the num- 
ber of Proof Impressions will be limited, an early 
application is indispensable- 



The scheme of this Work is in every respect very 
extraordinary, as will best appear from a short repre- 
sentation of the Author's design, as explained by Mr. 
Tyrwhitt, in his preface. • Chaucer pretends, that in- 
tending to pay his devotions at the shrine of .Thomas 
a Becket, he set up his horse at the Tabard Inn, in 
South wark; that he found at the Inn a number of 
Pilgrims, who severally proposed the same journey ; 
and that they all agreed to sup together, and to set out 
the next morning on the same party. The supper 
being finished, the landlord, a fellow of sense and drol- 
lery, conformably to his character and calling, makes 
them no disagreeable proposal, that, to divert them on 
their journey, each of them should be obliged to tell 
two stories, one going, the other coming back ; and 
that whoever, in the judgment of the company, should 
succeed best in this art of Tale -telling, by way of re- 
compence, at their return to his Inn, should be entitled 
to a good supper at the common cost ; which proposal 
assented to, he promises to be their governor and 
guide/ 

It will be necessary to assure the Public, that the 
Artist has not allowed himself a capricious licence in 
his treatment of the Dresses. So far from it, they 
have been adopted with the nicest fidelity from the 
best authorities ; from the British Museum, and other 
Public Depositories of rare MSS. ; from Monumental 
Retnains ; from the authority of Chaucer himself; and 
from Illuminated Manuscripts, painted in his time. 



J. IVrCREERY, Printer, 
Black-Horse-court, Fifet-street, London. 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




014 154 995 9 



